


inspired

by Areiton



Series: silver & blue [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (but not the good kind), Aftercare, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Come Marking, Consent is Sexy, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Escort Tony Stark, Eventual Happy Ending, Feminization kinda sorta not really, Honestly these two really need to talk, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, I will populate that tag all by myself if i have to, Jealous Tony, Light BDSM, Lingerie, M/M, Marking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Protective James "Rhodey" Rhodes, Safewords, Service Top, Sex Work, Shibari, Silver Fox Steve Rogers, Subspace, Twink Tony Stark, Unreliable Narrator, gentle dom Steve Rogers, so does tony, we deserve that tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: Stevechosehim and he calls himsweetheartand that--that has to mean something.“I want one thing, before I agree to this,” Tony says, and Steve studies him, blue eyes dark and intent.Or:Steve is a silver fox and Tony is a thirsty twink and weallknow how this is gonna end.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: silver & blue [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161041
Comments: 594
Kudos: 1022





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ....I blame Pineapplebreads for this and VerdantMoth for the thing growing legs and becoming a chaptered fic. Y'all owe them some thank yous.

The job is no different than any he’s accepted in the two years since Howard cut him off. 

There’s the time and address specified, the deposit sent to his account to secure his evening, and a dress code that makes him frown--

Comfortable clothing, no bruising or marks. 

Tony taps a finger against his chest, but the client checked out when Pepper ran his info, and Happy will take him. 

He hesitates for just a moment, but there’s a hole in his schedule and bank account where Senator Bell had been, and he needs  _ something _ to fill it. 

S.G. Rogers might not be that something, but he’ll do for now. 

Tony clicks accept. 

~*~ 

The brownstone is in Brooklyn, far enough away from his apartment in Manhattan that it’s almost enough to make Tony turn down the job. 

But the pay--good lord, even for him, it was nothing to scoff at. 

He sips his champagne in the limo as Happy drives through the city and he wonders if this is what Howard expected, when he cut Tony off--that he’d make enough money sucking cock and smiling at the side of rich, bored men and women to fund his inventions. 

Rhodey had promised, had  _ sworn _ that it was the best thing to ever happen to him, and for a while, Tony hadn’t believed him. 

But Pepper needed a plus-one to a art thing, and he impressed her, escorting her around the gallery and murmuring who was who, and who could be coaxed into what donation and who had just recently had a nose job done. They had fucked, after, an impersonal but fun thing, and he left her smiling drowsy and sated into her pillow while he went home to his half finished bots and two days later, Pepper had asked to meet him for lunch. 

She greeted him with a check and an list of friends and a plan that seemed so insane it couldn’t possibly work--but it’d piss off Howard and insane was kind of Tony’s favorite thing, so why the fuck not? 

Except it  _ had _ worked. 

He spent his evenings and weekends being wined and dined, using the skills bred into him at Maria Stark's behest to make a damn fine living, and his days inventing and churning out patents that were giving SI a run for its money and he was  _ happy.  _

He straightens as Happy slows the limo and peers out. The brownstone is unassuming but well maintained, steps neatly cleared of snow and a festive green garland wrapped through the handrail to match the wreath. 

It's not the most impressive place he's had a job, but its mot the least either. He tugs the cuffs of his sweater down and pushes back his hair, curling a little at the nape of his neck, before he climbs the stairs. 

The door opens before he can knock and for a moment, Tony is speechless. 

~*~ 

“Hi. I’m Steve.” 

Steve. 

S.G. Rogers is  _ Steve. _ He’s a tall man with broad shoulder and eyes so blue they almost seem unreal, long fingers stained with charcoal and silver hair that hangs in his eyes.

He’s older, and so fucking beautiful Tony can’t actually breath for a second, and he's never been so glad to be a paid whore, and he wants nothing more than to kneel for this man, to beg for him and call him daddy. He swallows hard. 

"You must be Tony," he says, and smiles. 

~*~

He leads Tony into a house that’s cozy and elegant, understated but lovely, escorts him to a kitchen bar and says, “Dinner isn’t quite done.” 

“We’re staying here?” Tony blurts out, startled, and a smile flickers in the corners of Steve’s expressive mouth, hidden in the scruff of a silver and golden beard. 

“Yes, I know most of your--clients--prefer to take you out, but I have something unique in mind.” 

For a heartbeat, Tony bites his lip because whatever he wants, Tony is pretty sure he’ll give it to him, and wouldn’t even charge a cent. 

The thought of Pepper, outraged and indignant, fills his mind and he makes an apologetic moue. “I don’t do anything that isn’t pre-arranged.” 

Steve looks startled, and then he laughs and good lord, Tony thought he was pretty before, but then he  _ laughs _ and it’s like the whole goddamn room lights up. Blue eyes twinkle and Steve shakes his head, grinning, but there’s a touch of red on his ears and Tony wonders what can make a man who’d hire an escort  _ blush. _

“Drink your wine, sweetheart,” Steve says. “We’ll talk after dinner.” 

~*~ 

They don’t talk about  _ business  _ during dinner--a rack of lamb with a cherry wine glaze, baby potatoes, crusty bread that Steve apologizes is from an artisanal bakery, tender brussel sprouts swimming in chili soy sauce, followed by a lemon ricotta cheesecake sprinkled with sugared blueberries--but Tony guides the conversation, as much as he can. 

He learns this: Steve Rogers is an artist, that he enjoys classic movies, that he is generous and sweet, and  _ nervous.  _

He watches Tony as Tony nibbles a brussel sprout, and there’s something about his gaze that makes Tony think he’s never done this before. 

That maybe tonight isn’t as straightforward as the job first appeared. 

“You know, you don’t have to do this,” Tony says, waving a hand at the lovely meal. He sips his wine and across from him Steve shifts a little. “I’m a sure thing, sir.” 

“You don’t even know what I want,” Steve reminds him and Tony polishes off his wine and dabs at his lips with the linen napkin, watching Steve watching him. 

“Tell me, then.” 

~*~ 

Steve takes him by the hand, long fingers warm wrapped around his wrist, and Tony trembles a little, at the thought of those fingers opening him up, of them wrapped around his wrist while Tony’s pressed under his weight, and begging. 

He blinks away the thought, and lets himself be led through the brownstone, down a hall and into--

A studio. 

It’s brightly lit and there are canvases stacked against a wall, a portrait hung on the wall of a stunning brunette with an enigmatic red smirk curling her lips. There’s a sculpture, too, half completed and Tony approaches it, studying the lines of the man, all muscle and strength, bent under the weight of the gun strapped to his back

“He looks sad,” Tony murmurs. 

“He is,” Steve says, softly. There’s a hushed quality to the room, to the tension between them, and Tony touches the base of the sculpture, the strange ridges and grooves and glances, questioningly, at Steve. “I used dog tags,” he explains, and Tony understands, suddenly,  _ why  _ he looks so strong and so sad, both. 

“He’s beautiful,” Tony says. 

Steve is quiet but there’s no way to avoid his presence, the weight of his gaze as Tony wanders through the studio, absorbing his work, and it’s that gaze, heavy and warm, that he finally turns back to. 

“You did not pay for me to stare at your work, as truly wonderful as it is,” Tony says, and Steve smiles. 

~*~ 

He listens, and it’s--

It’s not what he was expecting. 

“I’d like to use you at the center for an exhibit I’m doing,” Steve says. “A series of erotic photographs--I’ve checked your hard limits, and I don’t think that anything would bump against them, but of course you’d have a safeword and if anything makes you uncomfortable, we can rethink that particular piece. You’d be paid both for your time as an escort and what I pay my models. Additionally, you’d and I can discuss which photographs you’d like to use for your own advertising--not the pieces in the exhibit, unfortunately, but there will be some that I can’t or won’t use, and you’re welcome to them.” 

Steve pauses, studying him, the lowlight gleaming in his hair. There's something patient and steady in his eyes that makes the whole thing feel inevitable and the hint of shy hesitance that makes Tony wonder if he's as nervous as Tony is. 

"I know it's not what you usually do. But I think it would--" 

"I want to," Tony interrupts, because he does, he wants this more than he's ever wanted a client or a iob and some of it--most of it--

“You need to think about it. Look at what I’m proposing and in a few days--if you still want to--you can let me know, then. We can set up your first session.” Steve squeezes his wrist, and says, “Don’t decide right now.” 

“What about sex?” Tony blurts, and Steve goes still. “Most of my clients wants sex,” he adds, and he  _ hates _ that he’s so awkward, so gauche, in front of Steve. 

“That won’t be part of our arrangement,” Steve says, carefully. 

Tony studies him, and nods. “Ok.” 

~*~ 

He thinks about it. 

The problem isn’t thinking about it. It’s that he can’t  _ stop _ thinking about it. 

He jerks off when he gets home, well fed and buzzing with unspent energy, the warmth of Steve’s fingers around his wrist tingling hours later. 

He reads over the proposal, everything that Steve wants to do to him, and he jerks off again, because--

He  _ wants _ . He wants those big hands moving him and arranging him, wants those clear blue eyes watching him with that intensity that Steve had when they were in his kitchen and later in the studio, wants that small pleased smile that turned up Steve’s lips when Tony groaned over the first bite of cheesecake, and when he’d stood in awe of over the beauty in his studio. 

He  _ wants.  _

He doesn’t tell Pepper what the contract entails--after the first meeting, most of the details are for Tony to work out and she doesn’t intrude too much. But he tells her to book six sessions, and send the invoice to Steve and then he calls Steve and asks to meet for coffee. 

~*~ 

They meet at a small cafe in Manhattan that Tony frequents most when Rhodey is in town, a cafe that’s familiar enough that there are no nerves as he sits waiting for the handsomest man he’s ever seen in his life. 

Then Steve arrives, and Tony’s nerves come roaring back because this--this Steve--it’s  _ different.  _ Steve from three nights ago had been dressed in faded jeans that puddled over his bare feet and a button down left untucked with the sleeves rolled up, hair messy and falling in his eyes, paint stained fingers and comfortable. 

The Steve who walks into his coffee shop is wearing a fitted suit, his silver hair is pushed back in a slick wave that expose a sharp undercut that sets Tony’s fingers to itching. His beard is neatly trimmed and groomed, and he’s--

Tony shudders, because good  _ lord _ , that  _ voice.  _ Steve is on the phone, his voice sharp and commanding as he talks to someone on the other end, displeasure furrowing his brow, and there’s something about it, about the whole fucking package, the air of superiority and age and command that makes Tony want to  _ beg _ for this man. 

Steve is a walking wet dream, all of his daddy issues packaged up pretty, and Tony wants to feel those big hands on his bare skin and that voice, rippling with displeasure as he spanks Tony and warm with praise when he fucks him. 

_ No sex.  _

That was part of it, part of Steve’s whole agreement. 

No sex. 

Tony taps the pen on the agreement he hasn’t signed yet, for six sessions where Steve will strip him down and arrange him, make him a pretty object for Steve’s pleasure and purpose. And he wants  _ more.  _

“Tony,” Steve says, and there’s unfettered delight in his tone, that disappointed air and tone gone as he slides into the booth across from Tony, broad shoulders blocking the winter sun streaming through the window. “You look good, sweetheart.” 

No sex. 

But Steve chose  _ him _ and he calls him  _ sweetheart _ and that--that has to mean  _ something.  _

“I want one thing, before I agree to this,” Tony says, and Steve studies him, blue eyes dark and intent. 

“Anything,” Steve says. 

Tony smiles, and slips out of the booth, settles in Steve’s space, pressed against him, and he’s pleased when Steve wraps an arm around him, protective, drawing him closer. 

“I want you to kiss me,” Tony murmurs. 

Surprise lights up that pretty face, and Steve looks, for the first time, hesitant. “Tony,” he whispers. 

“Please,” Tony says, soft as a secret, all but begging and Steve--

For a second, he thinks Steve will refuse him, but then the arm around his shoulders tightens, draws him close.

His lips are soft, and dry, a little chapped, but plush and Tony whimpers as they kiss, a chaste little brush that goes from sweet to dirty and wet in less the space of a breath. 

Steve shifts, and Tony angles toward him, and teeth nip at his bottom lip, a tongue swiping over the sting and sinking into his mouth and Tony  _ groans _ , melts into him, and the arm around his shoulders drags him impossibly  _ closer _ . 

Steve kisses like he stares at Tony--hungry and intent and greedy for more, fucking his mouth with no sense of shame. Tony’s hard and aching in his jeans, just from this, from a dirty kiss and the needy huff that Steve gives up as he drags him closer. The hand on his shoulder has shifted a little, long fingers brushing against his throat and Tony’s head falls back with a whine, a keening, “ _ Please,  _ Daddy,  _ please.”  _

Steve freezes. 

Tony freezes. 

_ The whole world freezes.  _

Then Steve groans, his fingers fluttering around Tony’s throat, and he grits out, “ _ Fuck,  _ sweetheart.” 

Tony nods, nonsensical and Steve smoothers a laugh against his lips, that damnable hand never moving, flexing soft and sweet against Tony’s throat as he kisses him, languorous and unhurried. 

Eventually--when his body is buzzing and alight and his lips feel raw and bruised, Steve pulls back and Tony makes a quiet, discontented noise in his throat. 

Steve hums, thoughtful and says, “Is that a yes, sweetheart?” 

Tony smiles, and leans across the table, brushing against Steve’s erection as he retrieves the papers, and signs them with a flourish. 

“Yes, Daddy,” he purrs and Steve’s eyes are dark and intent and pleased. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Absolutely not,” Pepper snaps, and Tony gives her a patient smile because Pepper has been his manager for the past two years but she’s been his best friend for longer than that, and her heart is in the right place, really.

“I’m fine,” he insists. 

“And we pay Happy a hefty salary to ensure that,” she shoots back, hooking her hair behind her ear. “It’s just your second date, Tony--”

“Third,” he interrupts. “I met him, for coffee. To discuss details.” 

Pepper is staring at him, her eyes wide and her face inscrutable, and she takes the business card Steve gave him, that afternoon in the cafe. Taps it thoughtfully and then, finally, reluctantly, “I don’t like it.” 

“I’m a big boy, Pep. And he won’t hurt me,” Tony says and her eyes go dark, because there have been clients who _did_ , who took more than he agreed to, left bruises he didn’t want. 

He didn’t see those clients anymore, had black-listed them with the few escorts he knew, and in the social scene he was so valuable for navigating. 

Steve though--Steve is nothing like Jasper Sitwell or Sunset Bain. 

Steve called him sweetheart, and sat smiling at him in a cafe for over an hour, watching as Tony picked at a bagel and talked about his bots and never once asked for more, though his gaze sometimes tripped down to Tony’s lips, and darkened. 

Steve called him sweetheart and wanted to tie him up and take his picture and promised he’d be safe and he had no reason to believe him, really--

Except. 

Steve called him _sweetheart_. 

~*~ 

Steve answers the door in a pair of jeans and a button down flannel open over a white singlet, and his hair is tied back in a bun tonight. Tony whimpers and he can’t quite keep himself from reaching up, hooking a thick lock of silvery hair behind Steve’s ear. The older man goes still under his fingers, blue eyes intent and studying him, and Tony blushes, suddenly, pulling his hand back. 

Steve catches it, and squeezes softly, “You’re allowed to touch me, sweetheart.” 

Tony pauses, studying him and Steve smiles, a little bashful, too damn boyish for the powerful frame and silver hair and laughing eyes. “You don’t gotta--but you’re allowed, if you want. Only fair, seein’ as I’m gonna have my hands all over you soon enough.” He hesitates, and then, “Unless you’ve changed your mind.” 

Tony smiles, and it’s sultry and it’s real, not the practiced polished charm he gives so many of his clients. 

“Not a chance, handsome. Where do you want me?” 

~*~ 

The bedroom has been cleaned up and there’s a camera in the corner on a tripod, a rope spilling in a silken pile on the end of the giant white expanse. 

It’s neat and orderly and there’s no denying that this is Steve Roger’s room--there is a pair of running shoes kicked under a chair and cologne next to a watch on the dresser, a book that’s half read, pictures framed and placed for prime viewing. 

Hung over the bed is a massive photo, blown up and framed in black and white, starkly beautiful, a pair of hands clenched around the rope and knots holding them bound, pressed against a rain splashed window, and beyond it, Manhattan sprawls indistinct and glittering. 

It makes him think the person was being fucked, something undeniable and erotic about the framing and the desperation in the lines of the hands, grasping and clenched and lovely. 

“Is it your work?” Tony asks, instead of addressing the fact that he’s about to get naked and be tied up on Steve’s fucking bed. 

He’s half hard and Steve isn’t even touching him. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, fond and distant, and Tony swallows the jealousy surging in him for them, the nameless pair of hands who can make Steve sound like that. 

“It’s gorgeous,” he says, because it’s true, and Steve smiles at him, pleased. 

“I’m sorry--it’s weird, using my bedroom, but there’s the right setup, and lighting. Does it bother you?” 

Tony straightens, shoving the low simmering jealousy aside and steps into Steve’s space. 

He smells like mint and smokey cedar wood, like whiskey and something spicy. He smells like wealth, that indescribable scent that Tony associates with his childhood and his father, and like safety, the same feeling that he got when Jarvis would hug him and hold him in the kitchen after Howard’s drunk rages. 

He smells fucking _amazing._

“I have a safeword, sir.” Tony murmurs. “I’ll use it, if I need to.” 

Steve’s eyes have gone dark and there’s something like a smile, pleased, flirting with his lips, but his voice--his voice is a thick rasp that goes straight to Tony’s dick, when he says, “Alright then, sweetheart. Get out of those clothes.” 

Tony smirks. 

~*~ 

He strips efficiently, because today isn’t about seducing Steve with a strip tease, although the way Steve watches him, unabashedly interested, makes Tony think that maybe they should circle back to that. He shoves his jeans down, exposing satin panties that match the red sweater he’s still wearing, and Steve’s eyes go a little hot. 

“I know you have a plan,” Tony says, conversationally, and Steve’s eyes drag up, away from his panties and the half-hard cock they’re doing very little to hide. “But if you want to change anything with these in mind, I’ve got a whole lot of options at home.” 

Steve smirks, and says, “Wanna get dressed up for me, sweetheart?” 

Tony pauses, fingers caught in the hem of his sweater and meets Steve’s gaze, his own bright and steady, “Yeah, Daddy. I do. Wanna look pretty as a picture and then I want you to mess me up.” 

Steve’s breath catches, and Tony hides his smirk by pulling his sweater over his head, dropping it to the floor in a messy puddle to stand there in nothing but his panties. 

The gasp Steve makes now--it’s different, and Tony twitches, wishing for a heartbeat that he could cover up, slip his sweater on and hide the scars away. 

“Oh, baby,” Steve murmurs, and Tony shivers at the endearment. “What happened?” 

“When I was in high school, I got kidnapped,” he whispers, and he isn’t sure why he tells the truth. He never tells the truth. The scar in the center of his chest is ugly, a knot of livid pink over his sternum, and it can pass for a messy surgery scar--and usually his clients don’t care enough to question that. 

But Steve is staring at him, near naked and his for the taking, and he looks _devastated_ , like he wants to put Tony back together, guard him from the world and the thing is--Tony thinks he might just let him. 

Steve’s fingers, big and warm, trace over the scar, reverent and trembling and Tony shivers under his touch. “I’m sorry,” he says, tears pricking in his eyes. “I know it’s not pretty--” 

“Gorgeous,” Steve says, absently. His eyes flick up, meet Tony’s for a heartbeat, dark and burning. “You’re gorgeous.” 

For a heartbeat, with Steve's hand on his chest and his breath caught in his throat, pinned by that heavy hot gaze--Tony thinks they’ll kiss. That Steve will change his mind and fuck him. 

He’s gotten that look enough--from lovers, from clients, from his father’s Board members when he was fresh-faced and dressed in an impeccable suit--that he _knows_ what it leads to. 

It doesn’t, though. 

Steve smiles and steps back and waits, eyes bright and patient and almost laughing when Tony slowly flushes. His gaze trails, brazen and hot, over Tony’s belly and hips, and Tony’s been a paid whore for long enough that nerves and modesty have long since burned off. 

But sliding his bright red panties down and baring his cock to Steve’s gaze still makes him burn, makes his heart pound as the satin scrap slips down his legs and he steps out, painted toenails digging into the plush carpet. 

Steve watches him, patient and entranced and still fully dressed while Tony stands naked, skin prickling with goosebumps and cock hard. 

“C’mere, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, and tugs him, lightly, to the bed. 

~*~ 

It’s easy, giving himself over to the feel of Steve’s hands on his skin, careful and almost worshipful, for all that he doesn’t ever do anything _sexual_. The weight and warmth of his hands, slightly rough and calloused, is grounding, and it sinks Tony deep into the bed and his own mind as Steve wraps the ropes carefully around his ankles, winding them together and binding with precise, perfectly executed knots. The black rope is soft and supple against his pale skin, tight enough that he can feel it, but there’s no give, no way he’s moving until Steve moves him. 

There’s something freeing about it, being nothing more than an object for Steve’s artistry and pleasure.

“How you doin, honey?” Steve murmurs, when Tony’s ankles are bound tight and pretty and he sits back on his heels on the bed. 

Tony blinks up at him, and smiles, dreamy. The world feels hazy and indistinct, but Steve--

Steve is bright and sharply beautiful. He looks like an angel, fallen and tempting, crouched there with his jeans stretched over his broad thighs and cock. He’s lost his flannel, and Tony whines, because he’s _beautiful_ , all broad shoulders and long arms covered in delicate tattoos and his hair is falling out of his bun, into his eyes. 

“Please,” Tony whispers, and Steve tips his head, studying him. 

Then, very deliberately, “Please what, pretty baby?” 

Tony _shudders,_ nearly comes, and Steve hasn’t even _touched_ him. 

Steve laughs, rough as sandpaper and dirty as sin, and says, “Yeah, you’re just fine, aren’t you?” 

Big hands land on his hips, and the world shivers and spins, as Steve _moves_ him and Tony groans and gives in to the lure .

For a long time, there's nothing but the rasp of rope and the haze in his mind, Steve fingers brushing his skin while he binds the ropes around him, a harness around his chest and cock and throat. 

Tony _loves_ it, the tiny knots delicately and deliberately placed, the careful laying of the ropes so his skin doesn't pinch, so the aesthetic is flawless, and Steve's eyes on him, hot and hungry, the quiet murmured praise. 

He only hesitates when he is wrapping thin ropes around Tony's cock, hard and red and leaking. 

"Tony, baby," Steve murmurs. 

"M'fine," Tony slurs. "Want it, Daddy." 

The bed shivers and it takes a moment, endless in the haze, to realize that Steve _shuddered._

“Don’t come, sweetheart,” Steve says. 

It’s hard--the hardest thing he’s done--not coming while Steve winds a silken thin rope around his cock and his balls, a delicate dainty binding. A knot rubs just below his glans, another over the tip of his cock, a final, thicker knot on the unused span of rope, that makes no sense until Steve slips the rope up, knot rubbing over his hole and ties it neatly to the bindings at his wrist. Another snakes down his legs and ties off with a flourish. 

“Show me,” Steve says, and his voice is whip sharp, the same tone he used in the cafe and Tony shivers under it, not sure what he means but then--

He stretches against the ropes, as much as he can, wrists wiggling where they’re bounds at his back, stretching his ankles out--

Pleasure bursts through him, a starbright spangled pleasure pain as the knots _rub_ and Tony _howls._

The camera shutter clicks. 

~*~ 

He loses time, under the weight of the ropes that hold him safe in Steve’s design, under the pleasure, burning bright and just out of reach, under the intent gaze of Steve’s eyes and camera. 

He loses time, and he comes back to himself, floating and almost high and Steve’s voice, thoughtful as he rearranges Tony--his cock smears precum against his belly and Steve laughs and takes a picture--to his liking. 

“I want to suspend you, sweetheart. You look so good, so perfect in my ropes. I wanna see you soaring.” 

“Can,” Tony manages, eventually. “You--anything. You can do anything.”

There’s a moment, endless and hot and he wants to come and he wants to live in this moment, Steve’s gaze, forever--when he thinks Steve will. 

That the ropes will dig into his skin and he’ll spin suspended by Steve’s handiwork, for Steve’s pleasure. 

There’s a moment when that’s all he wants, that he thinks he’ll die, if Steve says anything but yes. 

“One day,” Steve says, and his voice is raspy, thick with promise, and it’s enough to choke back Tony’s whine, to make him melt into his bonds. 

“Just a little bit longer, sweetheart,” Steve says, and the camera clicks again. 

And Tony smiles, dazed and drifting. 

~*~ 

Steve’s fingers are on the ropes again. The light has shifted in the room, dimmed to almost nothing but Steve is on the bed next to him, his big fingers are plucking at the rope, and Tony blinks at him, stupidly. 

“Are we done, Daddy?” 

Steve smiles, and it’s different than the smiles he’s seen before, softer and sweet, tender almost. Tony likes it. 

“Yeah, pretty baby. We’re done. Gimme a second, I’ll get you--” 

“Don’t,” Tony blurts out, heart racing abruptly and Steve goes still. 

“Tony?” 

“Don’t--don’t take them off yet?” 

Steve’s hands drift away from the knots, and the panic clawing through the haze of subspace slips away, leaves him limp and trembling and still so hard he can fucking _taste_ it. 

“What do you want, sweetheart?” 

Tony blinks at him, eyes big and wet and says, “You.” 

Steve--

He smiles, small and sweet, and his hand covers Tony’s cock as his mouth comes down on Tony’s. 

The kiss is soft, feather sweet and gentle, glancing lips and darting tongue and when Tony opens for him, begging for him, Steve takes _slowly_ , achingly slow, sucking on his tongue while Tony writhes and moans. 

The hand on his cock is hard, almost brutal, not so much jerking him off as rubbing those damnable knots into the sensitive glans, against the tip of his cock, rough and demanding and it’s fucking with him, the dichotomy of the kiss and the hand fucking his cock, the gentle worship and demanding roughness, and then a finger taps against his rim, press that thick blunt knot rubbing against his sensitive furl _in_ and Tony _wails_ , comes in hot spurts against the black rope and Steve’s big hand, sobbing into the kiss as the pleasure burns through him. 

Steve lazily licks his pretty noises, sobbing whimpers and sweet little moans, from his mouth, until Tony is trembling and gasping for breath and Steve rumbles a laugh, and tugs him over, limp and still bound, sticky and sleepy, into his arms. 

~*~ 

Steve has removed his ropes when Tony finally surfaces, something he mourns for a long moment as he curls against the older man’s chest. 

“I can feel you thinkin’, baby,” Steve rumbles, and Tony peeks up at him. 

He’s beautifully rumpled, lips still swollen, hair falling in a silver mess, and his cock is hard, where Tony’s leg has been drawn over his lap. 

“You said no sex.” 

Steve tilts his head, examining him, and then nudges Tony over and draws his wrists up, carefully checking them for damage and bruising, placing a kiss on the soft skin before he lets them go. 

“I did,” Steve says, moving to his feet, and Tony lies still, not even breathing, as Steve continues to examine him. “But I won’t stop you from coming, Tony, if that’s what you want.” 

“I want you, Daddy,” Tony breathes, and Steve’s laugh brushes over his cock, over his balls and his hole, where Steve is inspecting for any bruising or tearing. 

“I know,” he says, amused, and pleased. 

“What are you doing,” Tony blurts and Steve straightens up and stares down at him, a little bit admonishing. 

“Taking care of you,” he says, sternly, and Tony’s indignant discomfort kind of stutters under his firm tone. “That was a long scene, baby, I wanna make sure the ropes didn’t damage you.” 

“Steve,” Tony says, his heart pounding because--no one _cares_ . That’s--he’s a _whore._ No one cares if he has a few fucking rope burns. “I’m not gonna die from a few bruises, Steve.” 

Something flares in his eyes, something hurt and determined both, and Tony’s chest _aches_ as Steve hums, thoughtfully, and says, “Maybe not, baby boy. But you still deserve to be cherished.” 

~*~ 

He goes home, in the morning. After Steve has fed him, and bathed him, dressed him in sweatpants he’s swimming in and a t-shirt that smells like Steve. After he’s taken _care_ of Tony, like Tony matters, and he presses a kiss to Tony’s wrists, when he walks him to the waiting car, and says, “Thank you, sweetheart.” 

He goes home, and he sits on his big empty bed in his big empty apartment and he ignores the messages buzzing in from Pepper and admits, to himself, if no one else--

Steve Rogers is going to be a fucking problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all are so excited about this and it really just proves we all deserve silver daddy Steve. Caveat--looking up harness for Steve to use on Tony for this was incredibly fun but also this isn't a guide for BDSM or shibari, practice safe kink, friends.
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://areiton.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AREITON_), if you want to yell about silver daddy Steve and twink Tony. I'm kinda obsessed. 


	3. Chapter 3

Rhodey shows up after about twelve hours, lets himself into the apartment while Tony curls in Steve’s tshirt and his blankets. He can hear the other man talking to his bots, the soft cooing tone Rhodey only ever uses with DUM-E and U, and it makes a smile string across his lips. 

Then Rhodey appears in the doorway, the familiar lines and shape of him, the tired stoop of his shoulders, the smile that Rhodey gives to him. 

He’s got a bag from the drugstore in one hand and a pizza box in the other. “Hey, Tones. Glad you aren’t dead.” 

~*~ 

Rhodey doesn’t push is the thing. He sits on the bed, propped up with half the pillows while Tony complains about the science on the TV, feeds him pizza until it’s gone and then scoots around, cross-legged, and opens the bag from the drugstore. 

“You gonna tell me?” he asks, pouring out the bag with a clatter of glass and Tony’s heart squeezes. 

He doesn’t know what he did, to deserve Rhodey, back when they were in MIT, isn’t entirely sure he  _ can _ deserve Rhodey. 

But he knows that Rhodey is his, the best friend and brother he never realized he needed, until Rhodey burst into his life. It’s soothing to be across from him and feel Rhodey’s familiar touch, buffing his nails. He pushes back the cuticles, and tuts a little over the ragged edges on his pinky, and Tony sighs. 

“He’s  _ sweet.”  _ Tony says, plaintively. 

Rhodey laughs, a breath of noise. “You’ve had sweet clients before. Rumi was sweet. So was that doctor you saw for a few months--” 

Tony doesn’t respond, and Rhodey let’s him have a moment, applying red polish carefully. 

“He’s different,” Tony murmurs. “He won’t fuck me.” 

Rhodey’s gaze flicks up, searching him for a second. 

The truth is--Tony is used to being wanted. He’s been wanted for his name and his money, for what his father could do, when he was the heir apparent to SI. 

And then, when Howard disinherited him, and Tony turned his talents to being an escort--he was still wanted. For companionship, sure--but they wanted to fuck him. 

Rhodey is the only one who has never wanted to fuck him, never wanted him for something he can  _ take _ . 

Steve--Steve wants him, there’s no denying that. But for all that--for the heat in his eyes and his hands and his grip, moving him careful and sure--he didn’t  _ take.  _ Even when he  _ could _ , when he had bought and paid for the right to--he only  _ gave.  _

“I like him,” Tony says, softly, a little ashamed. 

He doesn’t get involved, not emotionally, not with clients. He doesn’t even get emotionally involved with the one night stands he still has, on occasion. 

He cares about four people and one of them is sitting on his bed, and he doesn’t know how to fit Steve fucking Rogers into his worldview. 

“You can have this,” Rhodey says, softly. “If you want it. You deserve nice things, peacock.” 

“I’m a  _ whore _ , Rhodes. I don’t--men like Steve don’t keep boys like me.” 

“You  _ survived _ , Tony,” Rhodey snaps, fiercely adamant, “When no one thought you could, you survived. Don’t dismiss that.” Rhodey smirks, then, and drops his hand carefully, the wet polish gleaming and perfect. “Besides. You  _ like _ your job, Tones. And you’re good at it.” 

Tony smirks at him, wrapped in Steve’s clothes and Rhodey’s love, and says, “Yeah. I am.” 

~*~ 

Rhodey stays the night, sprawled on the far side of the bed, his snoring familiar and comforting while Tony curls around his pillow and buries his nose in Steve’s shirt, and his sleep is deep and dreamless. 

When Rhodey leaves, after he bullies Tony into a shower and breakfast that is more than coffee, Tony goes to the workshop, closing out his current projects and pulling up a search. “Alright, Daddy. Tell me your secrets.” 

~*~ 

There is, he finds, a plethora of information on one Steve Grant Rogers. A native of Brooklyn, he joined the Army out of high school, spent some time deployed before he got tapped for a special ops that redacted most of his career. Tony tracks his rise, though--he ended up at West Point briefly, came out an officer, rose through the ranks. He was a solider, and a damn good one, and then he left, retired and opened a security firm with three friends--James Barnes, Margret Carter, Natasha Romanov. They’re pretty, all of them, and Tony dislikes them  _ all.  _

He was out of the army for almost three years, before the first mention of his art. Tony studies it, that first piece. It’s of a ballerina, on pointe, a study in black and white and angles. She’s beautiful and ethereal, and there’s a bloody knife in her hand, splattering down around her and drenching her. 

It catapulted him from an oddity in the art world to a sought after artist. 

Tony stares at the painting for a long time, before he goes to his workshop. 

He loses most of the day chasing rabbit holes, and the night coding in his lab because it empties out his mind, and he needs that after everything he's found. 

It’s not subdrop, this disconnected unsettled feeling. He knows what that is, what it looks like in him, the anxious weeping, the inability to focus. This--this is an itch under his skin, and it takes him almost until dawn to realize--

He wants to see Steve. 

It takes until his phone chimes, a text message just after six a.m. while his eyes are burning and the last knot of coding is almost unraveled, to realize--he’s got a fucking  _ crush. _

It’s appalling is what it is, and dizzying, and he thinks that somewhere, Pepper is laughing her  Louboutins off. 

He shoves  _ that _ aside for future Tony to deal with, scoops up his phone and retreats to the couch. 

**SG Rogers:** What do you think of this, sweetheart? 

Tony clicks on the link, and his breath catches, a little, staring at the collar. 

It’s plain black, wide and thick, and he can almost feel the weight of it on his throat, and his pulse speeds, just a little bit. 

**Tony:** it’s pretty, daddy. 

The response is near instant.

**SG Rogers:** why are you awake, tony? It’s too early for pretty things like you to be awake. 

**Tony:** didn’t get to bed yet. 

There’s a delicate pause and then his phone rings, startling in the silence of his lab, and in his corner, DUM-E beeps inquisitively. Tony smiles, waves him away, and answers the phone. 

“Good morning, daddy.” 

“Did you have a client last night, sweetheart?” Steve asks, and his voice is hard and heavy, like it had been in the bedroom, warm and rough and  _ demanding _ and Tony closes his eyes, tips his head back against the couch and smiles. 

For just a second, less than a heartbeat, he thinks about lying. About teasing. But there’s a tension in the silence that makes him murmur, “No. Just working in my lab.” 

There’s a moment of waiting, bated breath, and then Steve huffs, and Tony can picture the wry twist of his lips, the sheepish gleam of his eyes. “You--I shouldn’t have asked that.” 

“I would tell you, if I mind,” Tony says, sharply. “Why did you pick the black collar?” 

“It’s traditional,” Steve says, promptly. “The leather is nice--it’d feel good, wearing it. You’d like it, I think.” 

“Mmm. And what if I said I wanted something prettier?” 

Steve laughs, a low thing that rubs up against him just right, teasing. “No, it isn’t flashy enough for you, is it, honey?” 

He can feel a flush rising in his cheeks, at the open mockery but it’s gentle, teasing, almost adoring. 

“Buy me something pretty, daddy?” he whispers and Steve makes a noise he can’t quite parse, but fucking  _ loves.  _

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. “Yeah, baby. I can do that.” 

~*~ 

They don’t talk much, between that early morning call and the session Steve has scheduled for Saturday. Tony goes out with a client who likes being seen with pretty young things, and goes home with aching knees and a wet mouth and something tight and unhappy in his belly, to another text from Steve sternly reminding him to sleep, wakes and works to the odd reminders from him to eat. 

On Thursday, there’s a delivery, gorgeous flowers and delicate macaroons and a pair of gold nipple clamps with dangling rubies, lovely and flashy and expensive, with a tiny card that reads: 

_ Pretty enough, sweetheart? _

He stares at them for a long time, while he nibbles on his macaroons. 

Then he grins and plans his outfit. 

~*~ 

Tony pauses on the steps of the brownstone, and he can feel Happy’s gaze on him from the car, here his soft, “Boss?” 

But mostly--mostly Tony can feel Rhodey’s presence propped up against him in bed while Tony yelled about Mythbusters and ate pizza, and Rhodey’s gaze when he said that Tony deserved this. 

He doesn’t know that, not really--but he knows that Rhodey doesn’t lie to him, has never lied to him. 

He climbs the steps carefully and shivers as the wind cuts, cool and promising snow, down the street as he rings the bell. 

Steve doesn’t falter, not really, when he opens the door, but his eyes widen a little, and he pulls Tony inside, out of the wind. 

Tony stumbles, just a little but he’s almost braced against Steve’s chest, and it’s easy to steady himself there. 

“It’s too cold for that, honey,” Steve murmurs, the warm words brushing against his skin, and Tony tips his head back--even in his heels, he needs to tip his head back to look up at Steve--and smiles. 

“You don’t like it?” 

Steve doesn’t answer, really, just rests a thumb against his lower lip, smearing the red lipstick, hand tight and clenching against his hip, just above the black leggings, where the cropped sweater leaves his delicate hipbones exposed. 

“You let everyone look at you like this, baby?” he asks, low and stern and Tony smiles, a mischievous smirk. 

“Thought that’s why you wanted to take my pictures--so people would look at me.” 

Steve’s grip tightens, hard enough to drag a whine from him, and Tony arches against him, a little. 

There’s a delicate clink of metal, and Steve’s gaze flicks down to the sweater, a a fuzzy pink cashmere cropped thing with  _ baby _ scrawled in gold across the front. 

“Want to see?” Tony asks, and Steve’s eyes are almost  _ black _ with want. 

“Yes,” he rasps. Tony smirks, moving to step back and Steve’s hand on his hip  _ tightens _ holds him still and close. “Not yet though.” 

~*~ 

Steve leads Tony--fingers wrapped around his wrist in a grounding, unbreakable grip--through the brownstone, to his studio. 

“Not the bedroom?” Tony asks, innocently, not quite able to keep the disappointment out of his voice--Steve smirks over one shoulder at him. 

He’s dressed down tonight, black sweats and a thin t shirt, silver hair falling in messy waves over his face. He’s prettier than Tony remembers, broad shoulders and back tapering to a tiny waist and peach of an ass and Tony’s mouth  _ waters _ , watching him. 

The studio is brightly lit, and Steve releases him as he goes to adjust the blanket and pillow waiting in an open space. 

Tony takes the moment to look around. The sketches and canvases have been cleared to one corner, the whole room obviously rearranged, and Tony wonders about it, about Steve here alone, shoving things aside and cleaning up and nervous the way Tony was. 

Or maybe, he thinks, Steve just wants a good picture. 

That made a lot more sense than the man in front of him being nervous about  _ anything.  _

He keeps pursuing the room, and goes still in front of the metal soldier. 

It’s--

“You finished it,” Tony breathes. 

The soldier is beautiful, carefully sculpted lines depicting a man carrying a gun and standing tall, slightly bowed by the weight of his weapons. 

The left side of the statue is mangled, beaten and twisted into something unrecognizable and almost monstrous. The only thing decipherable is on his arm, part of a serial number. 

“Who is he?” Tony asks, and Steve shifts, coming to stand beside him. 

“His name is Bucky.” 

~*~ 

He has been the object that Steve deemed worthy of his art, the focus of his intense gaze and inspiration. He is, already, addicted to it, the high of being held in Steve’s bright gaze and  _ seen _ and he  _ hates  _ Bucky, abruptly and furiously, a fierce jealousy that burns even hotter than the flare of it he’d had over that fucking photo in Steve’s bedroom. 

Steve’s fingers catch his own, and squeeze, just a little. “You don’t have to worry about Buck, Tony.” 

And that’s  _ infuriating,  _ that Steve can read him that easily. He pulls his fingers free and steps away, the starkly beautiful and monstrous sculpture left behind. “No one is jealous, sir.” 

Steve watches him, still standing by that damnable statue, and Tony bends, unzipping his boots. It’s not terribly sexy, but he isn’t worried about that too much, not when Steve’s gaze is fixed and bright and hungry. 

“Did you miss me this week, sir?” 

Steve doesn’t answer, but he smiles, a tiny, self-deprecating thing almost hidden by his beard, and Tony straightens. Stares at him expectantly. 

“The leggings,” Steve murmurs, and Tony smirks, pleased. He rolls them down with a tiny wiggle of his hips, baring the blue thong that cups his cock. 

“Dirty boy,” Steve breathes. 

“Didn’t want panty lines,” Tony says, a little pout in his voice and Steve breathes a laugh, all rough and wanting, and Tony preens a little, before he shimmies out of his sweater. 

The red and gold clamps sway and gleam in the studio light, and they don’t match, really, something he’d debated over, when he stood in the bathroom applying his makeup and styling his curls. 

In the end, it hadn’t really mattered. He was always going to wear the clamps for Steve, and the panties--well, they reminded him of Steve. 

“Do you like them?” Steve asks, and Tony smiles.

“They’re perfect.” 

~*~ 

Steve has him kneel, ankles crossed behind him and palms resting on his knees. “You can keep the panties,” he says, a hint of regret in his tone and Tony hesitates for the first time, but Steve keeps going, “They won’t be in the picture.” 

So he kneels, in his thong, his nipples clamped and aching, and Steve opens a box. 

“Daddy,” he breathes. 

The collar is hot rod red, leather so soft it looks almost silky. A golden hoop hangs from the collar. It’s simple and flashy and perfect, and Tony trembles a little, while Steve fastens it into place, wishing for a moment that seems to last forever, that it was real. 

That this was his collar and Steve was his Daddy, not just a client indulging Tony’s games. 

He wants it, wants it with  _ Steve _ , a deep visceral need that leaves him almost shaking. 

“You’re missing something,” Steve says, soft, almost clinically, and straightens, tugging a thin golden chain from his pocket. He clips it to the collar, attaches it to both clamps and then gives it a good tug. 

Tony hisses and Steve--Steve smirks. “Perfect,” he murmurs, sultry and hot, and straightens. 

~*~ 

Kneeling doesn’t do anything for Tony. He’s a pretty twink with a mouth made to fuck, and between the adventurous college years and his two years working as an escort--he’s knelt. 

He doesn’t  _ hate  _ it--he wouldn’t have agreed to it, if he had. But it’s  _ boring _ , to sit and wait, to be nothing more than a pretty object for another person’s use, and never know when that use would come. 

He’s never enjoyed kneeling, never liked the quiet humiliation of it or the silence that’s expected, and he expects this to be like every other time some wannabe Dom slapped a collar on him and made him kneel. 

It’s not. 

Of course it’s not. 

He’s still restless, uncomfortable and bored, but there is Steve, watching him, that bright intent look on his face that Tony adores, the one he gets when he’s working, when it’s about more than  _ Tony  _ kneeling naked and in his collar, when it’s about  _ art. _

It’s familiar, already, and settles him, quiets his mind as he gives himself up to Steve’s gaze. And when that’s not enough, when he still shifts, restless and buzzing with energy, Steve says, “Tilt your head, sweetheart, that--perfect, just like that.” 

It lights him up, that little bit of praise, the effortless command, and he leans into it, into the quiet commands that come in an easy stream peppered with warm praise, and softly spoken compliments, until he forgets he’s kneeling and that he’s waiting. 

He isn’t, Tony realizes, dimly, gasping as the way he twists his neck tweaks his swollen nipples and the camera clicks, and Steve whispers, reveranant, “Beautiful.” 

Here, like this, he believes it. 

~*~ 

“Tony,” Steve says, eventually, and Tony blinks at him, not sure when he closed his eyes. Steve has dimmed the lights in the studio and the camera is sitting on a side table, and Steve is close, close enough to touch. 

He doesn’t. He stays exactly where he is and Steve says, softly, “You wanna get up, sweetheart?” 

Tony hesitates, and then shakes his head, a slow thing that makes Steve groan, a tiny noise that doesn’t seem quite voluntary. 

“Can I get something from the kitchen?” 

Tony blinks and smiles, and Steve touches him, runs his fingers carefully through Tony’s curls before he steps away. 

It’s not long, before he’s back, carrying a heavy wooden board that smells like fruit and cheese. He drags a chair over, props the board on the table near the camera and settles Tony against his leg. 

Tony likes it there. Steve is warm and solid and he can rest his head on the thick thigh he’s spent the better part of two weeks dreaming about. 

“Here, honey,” Steve says, and a piece of cheese brushes against his lips. 

He takes it carefully, chewing the little morsel and swallowing while Steve strokes his hair. 

“You did so well today, sweetheart. I’m proud of you,” Steve says, and Tony preens a little bit, and takes a bite of strawberry, licking at Steve’s fingers where they press gently against his lips. 

“Tell me something about you,” Tony asks, and Steve hesitates. Tony presses heavier against his leg, and gets his hair tugged in reward. 

Steve clearly has not figured out that he  _ likes  _ that bite of pain. 

“I like your voice,” Tony adds and Steve hums, thoughtful. He brings a piece of prosciutto to Tony’s mouth and Tony takes it, licks the salt from his fingers, because he’s  _ thoughtful _ . 

“I was in the army,” Steve says, finally. “Career army. After I retired--it wasn’t in a good place. Some friends and I started a security firm, because it’s what we knew and what we’re good at and I am, I’m very good at it. But this is what I love.” 

“Pretty boys on their knees?” Tony teases. Steve laughs, fingers flexing in his curls. 

“That too.” He pauses, “What about you? How did you end up here?”

“I wanted to create something,” Tony says. “After college. I wasn’t supposed to. Was supposed to work for my father, play nice with his board. But I wanted to  _ build _ something.” 

“Is that why you’re here? Because you left home?” 

It’s a simple answer to a complicated question but it’s not strictly untrue. “Yes,” he says.

“You could go home, sweetheart,” Steve says. “He would let you come home, even if you never build a bomb for him.” 

Tony blinks at him, slow and dazed, and Steve smiles, offers a piece of honey drizzled brie. 

“Perfect,” Steve breathes, as Tony laps the sweet stickiness from his fingers, and he twists into the leg he’s leaning on. 

“I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be a piece for him to use and a pawn for others to hurt.” 

Steve is quiet for a long time and then, “Sometimes, baby boy, the family you need doesn’t come along for years. Sometimes you have to wait for them, but when you find them--you hold on tight and you don’t let them go.” 

Tony laughs, tips his head up to peer at Steve, and says, sad and resigned, “No one wants to keep me, Daddy.” 

Steve’s fingers tighten in his hair and his eyes go hard, and his voice is even and firm and  _ hot _ when he says, “I do.” 

For a moment, Tony  _ stares _ caught in his gaze and that declaration that feels like a dream. 

Then he scrambles up, into Steve’s lap and Steve’s hands land on his ass, pull him  _ in _ , his cock smearing against Steve’s shirt. 

Steve’s  _ hard _ , hot and huge in his sweats and Tony whimpers as he rocks down, grinds against that delicious length. Steve’s fingers flex and dig into the meat of his ass, a rough curse spilling from his lips before he leans in and  _ bites _ , hard enough that Tony shouts, jerking against him, riding that rough edge of pain and delicious pleasure. 

He’s hot and hard and going fucking crazy as Steve sets a rhythm, dragging Tony to rut against his cock, thrust against the silky smooth of his panties, teeth dug into his throat for a moment before he releases, gentles that into a wet sucking kiss, and that’s--

“Please, please,  _ please,”  _ Tony chants, mindless, rutting in Steve’s lap like a fucking teenager and Steve reaches up, plucks the chain dangling still from his collar, and the shock of it, the burst of pain makes him  _ scream.  _

“Ride me, pretty baby,” Steve pants, breathless and demanding, and Tony whimpers, almost sobs, but does what he’s told, braces his hands on Steve’s shoulders and follows the rhythm he set, fucking his hard cock against Steve’s hard abs, the shirt rucked up now. 

Big rough fingers pluck at the nipple clamps, twist them just enough that Tony sobs, a begging, “ _ Daddy.”  _

Then they’re gone and Tony shakes, his whole world going white as he comes, hot pinprick pleasure in his nipples and cock, spills into his panties with a moan, smears wet and messy against Steve’s belly. 

Steve catches his face, in big hands, draws him into a kiss that’s sweet and demanding and filthy and Tony--

Tony sighs into it, licks into Steve’s hot mouth and sinks his fingers into that fucking silver hair that’s driving him  _ crazy,  _ rocks against him sweet and lazy until Steve jerks and catches his hips, stills him with a pained groan. 

“Wanna see you come, Daddy,” Tony murmurs, and Steve smiles at him, luminous and lovely. 

“Not tonight, baby,” he says and pushes Tony upright in his lap. 

He doesn’t have to see himself to know what he looks like, panties smeared with come, hair askew, lipstick smeared, his nipples raw and red. 

He shivers a little, a self-conscious flush rising in his cheeks, and he wants to hide. 

Steve trails a gentle finger around his nipple and Tony whines, arches just a little and watches the wonder in Steve’s eyes, the pleasure and hunger and awe. 

“You’re so perfect for me, pretty thing.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day I'll write a fic about Tony and not include Rhodey. Just. You know. Not today.  
> Also! Everyone asking about the person in the picture in chapter 2--I promise you'll find out more. Just not yet.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the updated tags, friends.

They text. 

Steve texts wake him up, pictures mostly--morning sunrise shots, smiling selfies, rich dark coffee, running shoes. 

  


**SG Rogers:** I like to go running. 

**Tony Stark:** I haven’t even been to sleep yet. 

**SG Rogers:** take care of yourself, baby, or I’ll spank your ass red. 

**Tony Stark:** Promise, daddy? 

  


He texts during the day, between meetings, little things that amuse him that his staff has done, something he sees that reminds him of Tony. 

Tony texts when he’s delirious from lack of sleep, about the coding issue he can’t quite work out, about Rhodey leaving town again and a party he attends, though he’s careful not to mention it’s with a client. 

He sends his own pictures, too. 

Smiling while wearing a pair of white lace panties and black boots. 

Sleepy and rumpled in Steve’s t-shirt. 

A selfie with DUM-E. A picture of his toes perched on edge of his bath, milk hiding everything but the barest shadow of his cock. 

  


**Tony Stark:** look, Daddy, I even took a bath today. 

**SG Rogers:** you’re a brat, aren’t you? 

  


Tony laughed at that, and sent back a grinning self, aware that his makeup, smeared and a little messy just makes him approachable. There’s an aesthetic to it he thinks Steve will like. 

~*~ 

It’s not what he usually does. Clients are given the attention they _pay_ for, no more, no less. He doesn’t text them on his nights off, when he’s sitting in his bath or workshop or out with Pepper. 

He doesn’t think about them, either, when he’s opening himself up, filling himself with his biggest vibrator. He doesn’t come moaning their name, and think about sending them a picture of his still twitching cock and heaving belly covered in come. 

He doesn’t take their calls, when he’s still trembling from the aftershock and answer to a thick groan, a raspy, “ _Sweetheart.”_

He doesn’t smile and talk, low and dirty and promising, about being fucked, about how much he _wants,_ about coming for him. 

He listens to Steve groan, the wet sound of his fist and the low choked noise he makes when he comes, and thinks—none of this is what he usually does. 

~*~ 

Steve sends him a small white box. A delicate array of chocolate covered strawberries and coffee beans. 

A note that says, _Coffee is not a meal, doll._

_~*~_

The day after Tony sends a picture of him, curled up with a ratty blanket on the workshop couch, another box comes, luscious red with a white ribbon, and he opens it. 

For a long moment, he stares at it, the thick cream blanket so soft under his fingertips that it feels like a cloud. He pets it absently and reaches for his phone. 

“Tony,” Steve answers, pleased. There’s a hint of command in his voice that makes Tony shiver, makes him think he must be at the office. 

He pushes that aside and says, “What is this, Steve?” 

There’s a moment, and then, muffled, “Gimme a sec, Buck?” 

Tony fidgets, a little bit, jealousy surging to mix with the unease and confusion. 

“Hey, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs. “What’s wrong? You sound upset.” 

“If you’re busy--” 

“I’m not,” he says, mildly. 

“I shouldn’t have called,” Tony interrupts, and he can _hear_ the way his voice is going shrill and panicked, hates it. 

“Sweetheart,” Steve says, sharply, enough to cut the fog of panic in him, “if you want to go for some reason, you can. But if you’re worried about bugging me? You aren’t. You couldn’t. So—tell me what’s got you upset?” 

Tony’s hand clenches in the cream blanket, impossibly soft. “You sent me a blanket.” 

There’s a long pause, and then, “Do you not like it?” 

“It’s a _blanket,_ Steve!” Tony says. He sounds hysterical and completely nonsensical and he _knows_ it. 

But there’s a blanket that’s soft and warm like a hug sitting in his lap and -- “No one sends me blankets,” he says, abruptly. “They send toys and they send lingerie and sometimes they send my favorite Scotch, but they don’t send me fucking _blankets.”_

_“_ Do you _want_ toys or lingerie or Scotch?” Steve asks, curious. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing this,” Tony snaps, instead of answering him. His hand is fisted in the blanket, like Steve might reach through the phone and steal it from him. 

“I want to,” Steve says, like it’s simple. 

Maybe it is. 

“I want to take care of you,” Steve says and Tony breathes, quiet and afraid because no one has _ever_ wanted that. 

~*~ 

There are other presents. 

Flowers every morning. 

A lingerie set, wine colored lace teddy with thin straps and a pair of bikini panties that will look lovely on him and a card that says, simply, _wear this for me._

There’s a delivery of fresh fruit and a book Steve mentions he’s been reading, and a soft sweater that he wears to a dinner with Pepper. 

But every night, he curls, naked, in the blanket Steve gave him, and it’s different than any present he’s ever been given. 

~*~ 

He’s not nervous, this time. He wears a pair of loose jeans that rub rough against his thighs and the lingerie, a band t-shirt he stole from Rhodey. He spends a little extra time with his makeup and hair, curling it in big loose waves that fall over his forehead and slips his glasses on before he takes a cab to Steve’s house. 

The wreath has come down, and the steps have been carefully cleared, but it’s familiar now, and the only thing that makes him nervous about arriving is the man that’s waiting for him. 

He licks his lips and knocks, bouncing on his toes as he waits for Steve. 

The door opens and Tony blurts, “You aren’t Steve.” 

Bucky Barnes—because Tony is a _creep_ and investigated his client’s personal life—grins, sharksharp and pleased. His hair is shorter than it was in the pictures Tony’d seen online, grey peppered through. There’s a touch of it in his beard, and wrinkles near his eyes, and he’s just as pretty as Steve. 

Tony hates him on sight. 

“Hello, darlin’.” He tugs the door wide, and nods inside, while Tony hesitates on the stoop. “Come on, then, you’re just gonna get us both scolded, standin’ there in the cold.” 

Tony peers deeper into the house and Bucky smiles with teeth. “He’s not here, kiddo. Come on, come in.” 

He doesn’t touch Tony, doesn’t reach out to usher him, just waits, implaccable, as Tony shivers and—finally—steps into the house. 

“You want something to drink? I made coffee.” 

“Where is Steve?” 

Bucky glances at him, and Tony shifts, a little nervous under that sharp gaze. “You’re kinda pushy, huh? I can see why he’d like that, all things considered.” 

“I’m not sure what you think is happening here,” Tony starts, flushing and Bucky waves away his words. 

“Trust me when I say I have a much clearer picture of that then you do,” Bucky says, “C’mon, kid, stop standing in the damn door. Take your coat off.” 

“Where is he?” 

Bucky pours the coffee into two mugs, dumps two spoonfuls of sugar into one and hands it to Tony. It’s close enough to right that he doesn’t quibble, just wraps his hands around the mug and sips it. 

“He tell you about us?” 

Tony blinks at him, keeping his mouth shut. “Stevie and me—we've known each other our whole life. I was in a different unit, when we were in the military, but we never really lost each other. He’s my person, you know?” 

Bucky is staring at him, “We take care of each other—me and him, Pegs and Nat. We take care of each other.” 

“Steve deserves that,” Tony says, softly. 

“He does. He’s real good at taking care of other people, always has been. But he’s never been real good about letting people close to him. So when he does—they gotta do their part. You hearing me?” 

Tony blinks at him. “I think maybe you have the wrong idea about what this is.” 

Something shifts in Bucky’s eyes, goes cold and hard, and Tony shivers. “If that’s true, you should leave right now.” 

He flushes, opens his mouth to respond, and-- 

The door opens, and Steve shouts, as harried as Tony’s ever heard him. He skids into the room, and Tony twists to look at him. 

Steve looks shocked and a little bit alarmed, to find him there with a mug in his hands and Bucky leaning against the counter. 

“You’re here,” he breathes and Tony smiles. 

“He’s pretty,” Bucky says. His voice has gone honey sweet and slow, and that momentary coldness is gone, replaced by a teasing little smirk. “You leave something this sweet lying around like that, Stevie, someone’s gonna take ‘em.” 

Steve’s gaze darts to him, and he doesn’t quite growl, but there’s something about the way he moves, closer to Tony, that makes him think he would, if he could. 

Which is ridiculous. Steve and Bucky have been friends since _childhood._ They won’t fight over someone like _Tony._

_“_ If you need any help, recreatin’ that window shot again, I’ll volunteer,” Bucky adds. 

“Do you _need_ something?” Steve snaps. 

Bucky nods at the counter. “Pegs needs those signed.” 

“I’ll bring them on Monday,” Steve says evenly. 

Bucky’s lips crease into a thin smile, and he nods, straightening up from where he’s slouched against the counter. “I’ll get out of here, then. Tony, honey, good to finally meet you.” 

Tony smiles, a little bit listless, and Steve squeezes his shoulder. “Give me a second, will you, sweetheart?” 

He nods, but Steve is already moving past him, following Bucky, and doesn’t see him. 

Tony is left standing with a steaming cup of coffee and cheeks burning, and the distinct impression that he’s _missing_ something. 

It isn’t that Steve is ashamed of him, really. That’s not it. 

It’s more—he doesn’t want Bucky here. 

He doesn’t want Tony around Bucky 

And aside from a brief smile—he hasn’t really looked at Tony, his entire focus centered on Bucky. 

Tony _hates_ it, wants to pull his coat on and slip out before the night can get worse. 

He wants to drape himself over Steve and lick into his mouth and make Bucky _see_ where he belongs. 

He wants that insane feeling, that sense of belonging to be something real, and not just a whore’s dreams. 

His fingers tremble and he puts the drink down, carefully, toes out of his shoes and perches delicately on the barstool. 

He wishes, abrupt and absurd, for the warmth of his blanket, the comforting feeling of it’s soft fabric against his skin that feels like a caress and a promise. 

The front door shuts and Steve comes back, a little bit red from the wind and cold, and he smiles. “Sorry ‘bout that, sweetheart--” 

“I can leave,” Tony says, abruptly. “There’s no reason for Bucky to go.” 

Steve shakes his head, coming deeper into the room. “No, of course--” 

“You sure? Cuz kinda got the feeling I wasn’t expected, here.” 

Steve pauses, frowning at him, takes a step closer and Tony stiffens on his stool. “Sweetheart, you ok?” 

“Stop--jesus, Steve, just--” he fists a hand in his hair, tears burning in his eyes suddenly because Steve is watching him, so big and beautiful and fucking _concerned_ and Bucky’s sly offer keeps ringing in his head. 

_You need any help_ _recreatin_ _’ that window shot again’_

“Why the hell did you hire me,” he asks, abruptly, furiously. “You’ve let him model for you before—for the window picture. For the statue. You didn’t _need_ me.” 

“I want you,” Steve says, softly. “Isn’t that reason enough?” 

He wants to scream. 

It isn’t. Because he’s _used_ to being wanted, used to being used for his body and his name and who he knows. He can dress up pretty and smile just right and parade in front of kings and senators before giving the best fucking blow job of his life. 

But Steve-- 

Steve sends him flowers and coffee and pictures of the sunrise, sends him blankets and holds him careful, like he’s precious, calls him _sweetheart_ and makes it sound like _mine._

Steve puts him on his bed, naked and bound in ropes under a picture of him fucking another man, and leaves him to be greeted by his lover with dark hungry eyes and smiles he can’t read and acts like nothing fucking happened. 

He shifts, the lacy teddy scratching at his skin and Steve says, “Tony?” 

And Tony—he blurts it out, before he can think, before he can stop himself, chokes out, “Lovelace.” 

It’s like hitting a switch, that sweet warmth in Steve’s face draining away to something like shock and horror at the safeword, the way his hand stutters in the air between them, and he sobs, a quiet soundless noise because he wants this man, and he can’t _have_ him, Steve is someone else’s and he can’t stand here, can’t be held and touched and adored. 

He bolts, barefoot and tears in his eyes, out the door and into the cold, and Steve doesn’t stop him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm SORRY!!! This was--not the plan, but Tony had things to say. So anyway, we all get an extra chapter as we resolve this.  
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://areiton.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AREITON_), if you want to yell about silver daddy Steve and twink Tony. I'm kinda obsessed. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has some blatantly self-destructive behavior on Tony's part and a brief (nonsexual) client. Please be careful, friends!

Pepper does a thing, when she’s especially angry. She shows up at his house, bullies her way inside with food and quiet demands, with her sad eyes and sharply unhappy mouth, until Tony finally lets her in, too guilt ridden to do anything else. 

And then, when she’s there, securely tucked where he wants to hide, she _waits._

He manages for a while to ignore her, focuses on his coding and a prototype for a cleaning bot he has almost perfected. 

But she’s still there, eyes sharp and probing, when he emerges. 

“You need to explain to me why I picked you up, barefoot and crying, in a Brooklyn coffee shop,” she says. 

“The date went bad,” he answers, because he doesn’t want to explain the truth. 

“Ty bad, or Rumi bad.” 

Tony pales, thinking about Ty, about the night he’d called Pepper crying, the way Ty had brought two _friends_ to their date, despite his ironclad contract, the temper that had always simmered under the surface exploding the moment Tony said _no._

Rumi had been different—she'd been. 

Rumi had wanted, so badly, to save him. There’d been a candlelit dinner, a ring, a promise. A plane ticket to Tokyo and a life that looked so much like the one he’d _had_ , before Howard disowned him—for a moment, he almost said yes. 

He _wanted_ to say yes. 

And that terrified him, because he was _happy_ , he didn’t _need_ to be saved. 

“It’s not like either,” he says, though he thinks that maybe Steve does want to save him, and Bucky’s comment had made him think, brief and furious, of that night in Ty’s hotel. 

“You left though,” she says. 

“I ran away. He didn’t--Steve didn’t do anything wrong. I got scared, I used my safeword, and I ran away.” 

She stiffens. “Did he ignore your safeword?” she asks, dangerous. 

“Steve hasn’t even fucked me, Pep. He didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He didn’t. Not really. This—all of it, was just Tony wanting more than he can have. 

“He didn’t do anything wrong,” Tony says, leaning into Pepper and blinking back tears. 

~*~ 

He spends a lot of time drunk, those first few days, drunk and avoiding his phone. Steve has texted him, a litany of unopened texts and unanswered phone calls. 

Pepper, now that she has been reassured Tony wasn’t _hurt_ has settled into a kind of rigid disapproval, like she _knows_ he’s fucking up his life but she can’t convince him to stop and it annoys her. 

It’s accurate enough. 

Because he’s not stupid. He knows he could answer the phone, knows that Steve would explain that there _is_ an explanation, even if he can’t quite see it. 

He knows that most of it, the fury and hurt, comes from jealousy and wanting and he thinks even that Steve would give it to him, _everything_ , if he asked. 

He isn’t sure what terrifies him more—the fact that Steve would or that he might be wrong. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t tell Pepper. 

He tells himself that it’s because he does this, with older clients, people who he’s met before—schedules them on his own and lets her find out when she updates his calendar. 

He tells himself it’s because he’s got nothing to hide. 

He tells himself lies because they’re easier than the truth. 

The night of the date he dresses himself in a suit that fits slim and perfect, a crisp red button down under the black. 

Tony doesn’t bother with makeup or lingerie this time. Sunset never had much use for either, sneered and grimaced, the one time he wore lipstick for her. 

She’d wiped it away with his pocket square, ruined the fragile scrape of silk, and told him he looked like a cheap whore in it. 

He shoves that thought aside and refuses to dwell on the way Steve’s eyes had darkened, when he smeared Tony’s lipstick. 

Steve isn’t here. Tonight, he’s going to be on Sunset’s arm, bought and paid for. 

“Tony,” Sunset purrs, when he steps out the limo to find her waiting in front of her building. She’s wearing red tonight, a slinking revealing thing that leaves nothing to the imagination. She swans up to him, where Tony leans against the limo, hands tucked into his pocket, waiting. “It’s been too long, pet,” she grins, offering her cheek and he kisses her, a brush of lips against her cheek that makes him want to pull away already. 

She’s no good for him. 

He did this, came here, knowing she’s no good for him. 

It’s why he didn’t tell Pepper. 

He smiles because he’s a goddamn professional, and opens the door with a flourish, ushering her in and sliding into the long seat behind her. “Happy, the museum.” 

“It’s been a long time, darling,” Sunset purrs, leaning into Tony’s space. Her hand is high on his thigh and her eyes are sharp and flashing. “You haven’t been out with anyone, recently.” 

“Sorry,” Tony says, “I’ve been busy with my inventions.” 

“Those silly things,” Sunset says, a little laugh caught in her throat, incredulous and dismissing. “You haven’t given that up yet?” 

Tony doesn’t respond. He isn’t here to respond, not to that. 

He smiles instead, something charming and slick and wicked, practiced and perfect, and kisses her. 

Clients don’t want to hear him, not his stories about his bots, not his daydreams about Stark Resilient. Clients want him to parade at their side and tell him who they can use, want him to murmur promises and filth in their ear, want him to moan and beg for them. 

And he’s a good whore. 

He shoves his dreams aside, shoves his churning thoughts aside, and does what he’s paid for. 

~*~ 

He rumpled and hard, when they get to the museum. It’s been months since he went out with Sunset and somehow, he’d managed to forget that she’s a sadist who likes to leave her dates hard and wanting and not allow them to come. 

For a frightening moment, in the car, he hadn’t been entirely sure he’d get hard, wasn’t sure he _could_ do his job, not under her hands that were too hard and demanding. 

He had. Of course, he had. Not that it had done anything but make Sunset grimly pleased, not that she expected anything but his arousal, or even noticed that it took longer than normal for him. 

He’s hard and rumpled and annoyed because the night is already going badly and it’s his fault, he knew when he took the date that there was no other outcome—his dates with Sunset were never good. 

But he’s here because he’s a self-destructive asshole. 

He steps out of the limo, and blinks at the cameras flashing, smiles a fraction of a second too late before he reaches for Sunset, helps her out and parades her in front of the media waiting to photograph the wealthy rich coming to donate to—he doesn’t even remember what the hell the gala is for. 

Steve Rogers is standing on the stairs to the museum. 

He looks, somehow, better than he did in that fucking café, in dark suit pants and a blue suit coat that Tony is instantly aware matches his eyes, hair falling perfectly over his undercut, and his gaze is fixed on Tony. 

For a heartbeat that lasts forever, he can’t move, caught in that deep dark gaze and the smile, small and sad, that’s curling at the corner of Steve’s lips, and then Sunset presses against him, and hisses, “Who the hell is _that?”_

~*~ 

The torture of being here with Sunset is not that he chose a charity event that benefits veterans, one that Steve apparently opened because not only is he gorgeous and so sweet it makes Tony’s _teeth_ hurt, apparently he’s _also_ a fucking good guy. 

Tony writes a check, while Sunset is getting a drink and drops it in the donation box without any fanfare, before moving back to her. 

The torture isn’t being here with Sunset or watching Steve give a speech, or even the presence of Bucky and what has to be Natasha circling around him. 

The torture is Sunset fucking Bain, who’s been licking her fucking lips since she caught sight of Steve on the steps. 

“You can introduce me,” she says, insistent, and Tony rolls his eyes. 

“Sunny, I can’t--” 

“He knows you,” she snaps, cutting him off, too focused to even bitch about the nickname that she hates. “And I am paying a truly ridiculous amount of money for a subpar fuck and who you know. Earn your keep, Stark.” 

The hissed order is loud enough to get a few raised eyebrows and he flushes, not sure if it’s embarrassment or the fact that he’s going to have to tell Sunset of all people, why he won’t go talk to Steve. 

“Tony,” a warm familiar voice says, and takes the choice right out of his hands. 

He fixes a smile on his face and turns to Steve. “Hello, handsome,” he purrs and he watches Steve falter, watches the way his steps hitch. 

He’s never smiled at Steve like this, like he’s a _job._

Steve looks beautiful, of course he does, but now that Tony is looking—drinking him in, so close his fingers itch to reach out—he can see the shadows under his eyes, the way his gaze is _tired_. 

“You came,” Steve murmurs and Sunset shifts, pointed, at his side. 

Tony clears his throat and nods, a hand on her back to usher her forward, and Steve’s expression twitches, not quite anger, but something so clearly displeased it makes Tony squirm. “Have you met Sunset, sir? Sunset Bain, this is--” 

“Steve Rogers. I’ve been _dying_ to meet you.” 

“Pleasure,” he says, so shortly Tony almost laughs. Daddy is in no mood to play nice, it would seem. “Tony, can I have a moment?” 

“Steve,” he says, feeling Sunset’s gaze go cruel and sharp. “I can’t--” 

“Ms. Bain, you don’t mind, do you?” Steve says, smoothly. “I promise to bring him back in one piece.” 

Sunset doesn’t really respond, just waves a hand, her gaze icy. “If that’s what you want.” 

Steve looks away from Tony for the first time, landing on Sunset and it’s a hard, cold look, one that makes Tony shiver. “He is,” he says, firmly. “He is exactly what I want.” 

Tony shivers at the way that Sunset’s gaze tightens and chills, but then Steve’s fingers, hot and thick and implacable, close around his wrist, tugs him lightly, and then they’re dancing. 

It’s a smooth transition, and the feel of Steve’s arms around him, his hands tight and warm on Tony’s, distance increasing between them and Sunset—Tony's anxiety soothes and eases and is quickly replaced by the nerves that come with _Steve._

_“_ You’re avoiding me, sweetheart,” Steve says, mildly. 

“We don’t have to do this,” he says, “I don’t--I tried to send your payment back. We don’t need to pretend that I’m anything more than a model and a whore. I don’t--I'm not the kind of boy _you_ keep.” 

“Do you want to be?” Steve asks, intent and strangely hopeful. Tony inhales, a sharp noise that makes Steve blink and look away. A pretty flush is crawling up his cheeks. “Let me explain.” 

“Why?” 

“Because maybe you aren’t the kind of boy that I should keep, but I've never been the kind of man to do what I _should.”_

Steve turns them, his hand tight on Tony’s back, and Sunset is there, just beyond the floor, quietly seething. 

“Please, sweetheart. Let me explain.” 

Bucky is watching and Natasha—she's pretty, prettier than even Steve’s painting made her—is smirking, and he wants to say yes. 

“I’ve missed you,” Steve breathes, one finger brushing against the nape of his neck. Tony shivers, leaning into him. 

He wants to say yes. 

He wants to stay here, close to Steve, where the rest of the world cannot touch them. 

“I know you cancelled our dates. But I still want them, I still want _you._ I want to explain, before you throw us away.” 

“If I say no?” Tony asks, quietly. 

Steve’s mouth tightens. “Then I accept that.” 

“Tony!” Sunset snaps. “We’re leaving.” 

Steve’s hand tightens around his and she snorts. “You don’t want him here. You _know_ what he is.” 

“He’s my guest,” Steve says, simply. 

Her mouth twists into a furious grimace. “You can have him when you’ve paid for him. This evening is one I paid for, and I am taking him now.” 

“You,” a new voice, silky and menacing, cuts into the conversation, “need to leave.” 

Natasha has approached, flanked by Bucky, and she’s prettier up close than she was a room away, silver threaded through her red hair, eyes bright and furious. 

“This is none of your damn business,” Sunset snarls. 

“Tony is an invited guest, Ms. Bain,” Natasha says, sharply. “You are not.” 

Sunset stares, startled, and then whips her head around, glaring at Tony. “We’re _leaving_ ,” she snarls. 

“Sunny,” he starts, anxious. 

“I will _ruin_ you,” she snarls. “You will _never_ work another night, if you finish that fucking sentence.” 

He blinks at her, and Steve—Steve catches his chin, tips his head up, to stare at him. 

The world goes unfocused. “You can stay, with me,” Steve murmurs, and it’s a question, a promise. 

He’s terrified, by the promise and by how much he wants to believe it. 

Steve is waiting, patient, a hand extended, and all he has to do is reach back. 

He takes it, and Steve _smiles._

~*~ 

“Steve, you can _not_ be serious,” Tony says, thirty minutes later. 

He’s wearing a thousand-dollar suit, they left a charity event that cost two grand to sit down at, and they’re standing in front of a greasy dinner, the smell of cheeseburgers and burnt coffee drifting onto the sidewalk. 

“C’mon, baby doll,” Steve grins. “It’s good, I promise.” 

There’s something hopeful and playful about him, an ease to his shoulders and lightness to the way he walks, something that’s been there since they left the museum, Natasha smiling and reassuring and shooing them along. 

Steve squeezes, tugs his hand a little, and Tony huffs, allows himself to be hauled into the diner, tucked into a booth with Steve across from him, big and broad and ridiculously earnest as he smiles up at the waitress. 

She’s ancient, but she blushes like a schoolgirl, when Steve turns that dark blue smile her way, giggles and orders three burgers and fries, a milkshake and coffee. 

“Do you charm everyone you meet?” Tony asks, idly and Steve shrugs, smirks. 

“You do the same, bambi,” he says mildly and Tony gasps, all affronted. “With those damn doe eyes and that pretty pout.” 

He flushes, ducking his head and Steve breathes a laugh, soft and sweet. “Perfect, pretty thing.” 

“Did you bring me here just to make me blush?” Tony says, squirming. 

“And to feed you. You need feeding,” Steve agrees. “And,” he straightens. “I owe you an explanation.” 

The waitress puts their drinks down, pats Steve’s shoulder and scurries back. 

“Bucky should never have talked to you, not the way he did.” 

“He’s protective,” Tony says, softly. He thinks of Rhodey, the raging fury in him the night Tony woke in the hospital after things went so badly with Ty. “Friends are like that,” he says. 

“He is. But he let you think something that—it's not true.” Steve flushes, and sits back, fiddling with his fork. “I’ve never been with Buck, not the way you’re thinking. Nat or Peggy either. We’re friends—they're my family, if I’m being honest. They’re people who I would die for, who would die for me. But they’re not—have never been—my lovers. I don’t--I’ve been alone, a long time.” 

Tony gives him a skeptical look and Steve laughs, “Brat. I have. I date, there’s been a few men, one-night stands. But I’ve never been with anyone, long term. Bucky—he wants that for me. He’s had it, with Nat. Peggy has it, with her wife. And he—he doesn’t want me to be lonely.” 

“Are you?” Tony asks, curious despite himself. 

Steve shrugs, a little bit self-deprecating, and smiles at him. “Sometimes.” He reaches, slowly, across the table, and brushes Tony’s hand with his own. “Not so much, recently.” 

“Steve,” Tony breathes, shaky. 

“It’s a girl we know, in the picture—a model I used to work with named Wanda. I had this image in my head and I wanted to get it out. Buck helped—but it was never sexual between him and I. Not with Wanda, either. I need you to know that.” 

“Steve, you literally met a woman who was paying me to fuck her, tonight. I don’t get to be jealous of who you might have fucked, in the past,” Tony says, dismissive, even as his heart soars. 

“You could. If you wanted to—you could be,” Steve says, intent, his eyes dark. “I am.” 

Tony stares, not quite sure what to do with that, because--”You haven’t even fucked me,” he murmurs. 

Steve shrugs, grimaces a little behind his melting milkshake. “I want you, Tony. I don’t know how else plainly to say it. But I want you when you’re ready for that.” 

“You _pay_ me to be ready for that,” he says, shrilly and Steve shakes his head, serious and firm. 

“I pay you to model for me, darling. I will continue to pay you to model for me. Wanting you. The presents and the sex and this,” he gestures at the diner. “That has nothing to do with the other.” 

Steve tips his head. “The question is—do you still want that?” 

_Do you still want_ me? 

Tony runs a finger, trembling slightly, over the rim of his cup. “I made a donation, tonight. It’s a good thing, you’re doing.” 

“Sweetheart,” Steve says, concerned. “You don’t need to--” 

Tony huffs and scribbles a number down on the napkin he’s been shredding, slides it across the table to Steve. “I made,” he taps the napkin. “A donation.” 

Steve stares for a long moment, and then his gaze darts up, finds Tony. “This is--” 

“What you paid me. Yes.” 

He can see the gears working, turning in Steve’s brain, brightening up his dark eyes. “When that woman said she’d ruin you—you aren’t worried about that, are you?” 

Tony leans back in the seat, and smiles. “Do you know what infuriates Howard Stark more than anything, Daddy?” he purrs and Steve swallows. He traces the movement with his gaze, and licks his lips. “It’s the fact that his son—the cocksucking pretty boy who he threw into the streets—makes more money on my inventions than SI does building bombs. And that even though I’m a multimillionaire—I'm still a cocksucking pretty boy whore. It’s that every fucking time one of these damn galas happen—he has to see me like this. And know that I’m only doing it because I hate him.” 

Steve smiles at him, this slow dawning wonder that warms him to his toes. “If we’re gonna finish the sessions for your exhibit,” Tony says, slow and considering. 

He thinks maybe—maybe Steve will give him this. 

He thinks maybe—maybe Steve will give him _everything_. 

“If we do this—I want you to include my face,” he breathes. 

Steve smiles at him. “Yeah, baby. I can do that. I’d _love_ to do that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fixed it!! Mostly.


	6. Chapter 6

There are four text messages waiting when he wakes up. His eyes are gritty and there’s a sour taste in his mouth, but he can still feel the soft brush of Steve’s beard, the gentle plush give of his lips, when he kissed him before leaving him at his door. 

He has four text messages, and he wants to lay here, wants to revel in the warmth of his bed and the lingering high of last night, of _ Steve. _

He has four text messages, and he smiles as he opens them, hopeful, and his stomach drops, that slow warmth fading and the smile dropping away. 

Sunset. He expected that. 

Pepper, and she’s just as furious as he expected. 

Howard. Howard he didn’t expect, and the brusque two word text makes his stomach knot and churn. 

His fingers are shaking and he ignores the message from Steve entirely, because that’s a  _ good _ thing,  _ a happy _ thing, and he doesn’t want Howard’s shit to ruin it, to even  _ touch _ it. 

Steve is his, safe and pure and Howard’s bitch fit doesn’t get to touch him. 

He calls Rhodey instead. 

“Pepper is pretty pissed, peacock,” Rhodey drawls when he answers. “You didn’t even tell her you were going out with Sunset.” 

“Howard wants me at the Mansion,” Tony says, toneless. 

There’s a beat of silence, and then, gently, “I’ll can be at the apartment in an hour. Do you want me to meet you somewhere sooner than that?” 

“You’re busy,” Tony breathes, panic and fear tightening his throat. 

“Not too busy for this,” Rhodey says, stern and gentle and everything Tony has learned to rely on, since Rhodey walked into his dorm room and his life and refused to budge. 

“Ok,” Tony murmurs. “Coffeeshop near the mansion?” 

“See you there in twenty minutes,” Rhodey confirms. 

~*~ 

He dresses down. 

He never dressed up, to see Howard. He wears a distressed pair of jeans, a faded pair he wore most often in the workshop that had cost three dollars at a thrift store, pairs it with a threadbare t shirt under an USAF sweatshirt he stole from Rhodey and sneakers that DUM-E likes to play with fetch with. 

He looks like an urchin, young and just as destitute as he had been when Howard threw him out. 

Rhodey huffs, walking next to him into the house and Tony hides his smirk. 

“Young Sir,” Jarvis says, ushering Tony into the house. “Ana is quite put out with you.” 

“Did I miss a birthday?” Tony asks, his expression tipping into distraught for just a moment but Jarvis is smiling.

He holds out the paper, opened to page six. The photo isn’t terribly large, but it’s clearly Tony in his black suit and scarlet, Steve’s arm around his waist and head tipped down to him, escorting him out. “You seem happy, sir. Will we be meeting him soon?” 

Tony blinks at the picture. 

He does. 

There’s a lightness to his shoulders that he doesn’t recognize and a smile flirting at the corners of his mouth and Steve’s tipped toward him, attentive and protective and intent. 

He looks happy and Steve looks--

He wants, a sudden and desperate want, Steve, here, with him, He wants to wrap himself in the safety he always feels, with Steve. 

“Tony,” Howard snaps, and Rhodey tenses at his side. 

“I’ll be fine, honeybear,” Tony murmurs, and turns, a sharp brittle smile fixed firmly in place. 

“Hello, Howard.”

~*~ 

It’s routine. 

Howard bitches and moans and threatens and Tony mouths off. Rhodey quit letting him come the last time Howard hit him for his insolent sass, and it’s now a stalemate--Howard refuses to acknowledge Rhodey, refuses to allow him in the office where he yells, but he also won’t touch Tony while Rhodey is waiting, either. 

He doesn’t listen, not really. 

He doesn’t even know why he still comes when he’s summoned, except--

Except that his mother might be here, drunk and languishing in the mansion. 

Jarvis is here and Ana. 

And there is a part of him, small and childlike and hopeful, that still  _ wants _ Howard’s approval. 

“You  _ ruined _ the deal with Viastone, and now you’re  _ trying _ destroy my merger with Bain Enterprises, you selfish little--”

“I didn’t even know about that,” Tony interrupts. “Sunny and I don’t do a whole hell of a lot of  _ talking _ when we’re together, Dad.” 

Howard’s face goes red and furious and Tony leans back, grinning. “Did you ever figure out that propulsion problem that Obie told me about? Because you know--” 

“What are you doing with Commander Rogers?” 

Tony goes still. There’s something different about Howard’s voice, now. Something serious and implacable. 

“Why?” 

“He isn’t for you, boy. You--you want to slut around Manhattan and fuck every coked-out socialite in the city, I can’t stop you. You want to screw every contract SI puts together--we manage to fix most of those, despite your interference--”

“Not interfering,” Tony protests.

“But Commander Rogers is a good man. He deserves better than you.” 

Tony blinks at him, and it stings, hearing. 

It stings, but not quite as much as his soft admission. “I know.” 

~*~ 

He doesn’t talk about it, what Howard said. He sits in the kitchen with Rhodey and Ana and Jarvis, lets them fuss over him while Rhodey watches with narrowed eyes until he’s assured Tony isn’t hurt. 

He doesn’t talk about it. But he thinks about it, while Ana asks about Steve, and Tony doesn’t tell her that it’s a job, it’s only ever been a job, that he’s a hired whore and Steve is everything he doesn’t deserve to have. 

He only smiles and blushes and eats too much cake, and says, softly, like a secret whispered here where he is safe, with people who love him, “I really like him.” 

Ana tuts and pets back his hair, and says, “Man like that. He’d best be good to you, my boy. He doesn’t deserve you.” 

He smiles and wishes it were true. 

~*~ 

“You sound sad, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, later, when he’s home, when he’s showered off the feel of the mansion and Howard’s disgust, when he’s comfortable in his sweats and Steve’s sweater and his hair hangs in wet curls around his face. 

“They took a picture of us,” Tony says. 

“Does that bother you?” 

Tony laughs, and it sounds bitter even to his own ears. “I’ve been photographed since i was a child, Steve. I just don’t want you hurt because you’re seen with me.” 

There’s a long moment, and then, “I was in Special Ops for a long time, baby. I’m not easy to hurt.” 

“Not  _ hurt. _ But--you forget I’m an escort. I’m not exactly respectable.  _ That _ can hurt you, could hurt the foundation, and I’m not worth that.”

It spills out, a frantic rush that he can’t stop, and he  _ knows _ better, knows it’s dangerous, to be that vulnerable. But there’s Ana’s hopeful expectations and Howard’s furious disapproval and that fucking picture, Steve smiling so softly. 

“You asked me to include your identity in the exhibit, sweetheart. Do you think I’m going to do that and not make it very clear that you’re mine?” 

Tony shivers, a tiny whine slipping free. He’s half hard, just from the rumble of Steve’s voice in his ear, the growling claim that he wants so badly and doesn’t trust. 

“Do you want to be mine, bambi?” Steve murmurs, and he gasps, a fist pressed to his lips. “Answer when Daddy asks you a question.” 

“Yes,” he whispers, secret soft. 

Steve sighs, and Tony refuses to think about how relieved he sounds. Or how pleased he is when he breathes, “Good boy.” 

~*~ 

There’s a frission of nerves, when he steps out of his car, climbs the steps a little unsteady. Steve is waiting. His text from thirty minutes ago is still fresh in Tony’s mind, but there’s also this--Bucky’s sharp smile and sharp words and insinuations. 

The door opens and Steve steps out, smiling bright and just as relieved as Tony feels. “You came,” he breathes and it makes Tony straighten, strut up the remaining stairs so until he’s just one step lower than Steve, and even with his heels, he’s still shorter, Steve towering over him. His big hands come up and settle on Tony’s shoulder’s, warm and comforting and it makes him feel, impossibly, smaller, safer. 

“I missed you,” Steve murmurs and Tony smiles. 

“Show me,” he breathes, and Steve’s eyes go dark and hot. 

He’s distantly aware of the cold wind cutting through his thin coat, of Happy pulling the car away. But the whole world is narrowing down, pinprick focus on Steve. 

“Out of the cold, sweetheart,” Steve says, and tugs him, carefully, up the remaining step and into the brownstone. 

The second the door closes, Steve pushes Tony, until his back hits the door and crowds into his space, a thigh wedged between his legs, and he’s  _ kissing _ him. 

Tony whimpers into it, and Steve’s tongue is there, licking the needy little noise from his mouth. 

Steve kisses with the single-minded focus Tony’s come to expect and adore about him, firm and purposeful and unbearably erotic, nipping at Tony’s lips until they are tender and swollen, licking over the tiny sting and into his mouth and Tony’s hips buck up, rut against the sweats clad leg shoved between his own, when Steve sucks on his tongue. 

He’s hard and aching, his skin too tight and when Steve presses him against the hard door, when he hitches Tony up by the waist and thrusts against him, he can  _ feel _ how hard Steve is, big and hot and thick. 

“Please, Daddy,” he gasps, and Steve groans against his throat, worries a bruise there that makes’s Tony twitch and groan, cock blurting precum. 

“Please, lemme--” 

“Not yet, bambi,” Steve whispers and Tony almost  _ screams.  _ Steve smirks, pulling away and straightening his shirt. He casually adjusts himself and Tony watches, mouth watering. 

He’s never wanted to suck someone off as badly as he does, right now. 

“Eyes up, sweetheart,” Steve says lightly and Tony drags his gaze up, over the narrow waist and broad shoulders and the smirk that’s only grown, self-satisfied and smug. 

The bastard. 

“You’re a tease,” Tony accuses. 

“I am,” Steve agrees, and extends a hand. “Come on.” 

~*~ 

The cuffs are on the table. 

They’re utilitarian, plain padded leather cuffs laying on the white bed, silver links shining in the low lights of the room. He doesn’t look up at Wanda hanging on the wall, just stares at the cuffs while Steve moves around him, quietly, and finally stills at his back. 

His lips skim across the nape of Tony’s neck, big hands settled on Tony’s waist, and he murmurs, “Are you--” 

“I want this,” Tony says, hoarsely. Steve’s hands tighten, just a little, and Tony tips his head back, into Steve. “Gimme a second?” 

Steve nods and steps away and Tony ducks into the en suite. His fingers tremble a little as he shimmies out of his jeans and sweater, folding them and setting them aside. He rolls his lips together and tousles his curls a little as he steps back into his heels. 

It’s feminine is the thing. The black heels that curve his legs so nicely, the panties that cup his cock, the teddy that scratch over his nipples and covers very little, bares his scars. His makeup is light--a touch of lipstick, a little eyeliner, just enough to accent. He’s never done this much for Steve, not all at once. 

He wishes, abruptly, that he’d worn his gold collar. 

He pushes that thought, the nerves, aside, and straightens his shoulders. 

Steve doesn’t speak, when Tony steps out of the bathroom. His eyes crawl over him, slow and intent, and Tony forces himself to stay still under that heavy gaze. Finally, he smiles, a small, pleased thing.

“You’re perfect, baby boy,” Steve breathes, and Tony blushes. 

~*~ 

The picture is this--Steve positions Tony on his knees, feet tucked neatly under his ass. He curls forward, forehead pressed to the sheets, and his hands are secured at his back, the cuffs stark and harsh against the pale red lace and milky skin. 

He’s covered, but there’s something intensely vulnerable about it, the way his hands are bound, the way that Steve’s hands skim over his body, arranging him just so, the way that Steve doesn’t speak, just  _ moves _ him, like Tony is nothing more than his plaything, arranging him so easily and stepping back to let the camera shutter and click. 

Tony’s cock is fat and thick where it’s pressed between his bent knees and his belly, his breathing harsh and rasping in the air and Steve pauses, says, softly, “Sweetheart?” 

“I’m fine,” Tony says, and Steve shifts. He comes around the bed, and kneels on it, near enough that Tony can feel the warmth of his body. 

“Open your eyes, Tony,” Steve says and he does because he can’t imagine disobeying that voice, so sure and steady and beloved. 

Blue, hungry and intent, fills up his vision and Tony whimpers as Steve’s expression shifts, goes soft and hungry and just a little bit awed. “Perfect,” he breathes, and snaps the picture. 

Tony shudders, jerking a little before he forces himself still, forces himself to hold the position that  _ Steve _ put him in. 

“You’re so good for me, baby,” Steve murmurs, his voice gone deep and gravel rough and Tony shivers. His cock is hard and hot and leaking against his thigh, and he wants to move, wants to thrust against Steve, wants Steve’s mouth on him and his cock in him. 

“Just like that,” Steve says and Tony goes still again, only distantly aware of the camera, of the way that Steve is taking pictures of his face, of the way he moves around him, only knows that Steve is  _ happy _ , that he’s calling Tony  _ good  _ and  _ perfect _ and  _ so pretty, baby.  _

Tony whimpers, hazy and drifting, and Steve shifts behind him, the cuffs clinking a little as Steve brackets him and the weight, grounding and tantalizing and not enough. 

Tony moans and shivers, and wet hot come spills against his thighs, hands clenching helpless on nothing and Steve--

“Christ,” Steve groans, and the camera shutters, clicking as Tony’s hands open and close uselessly on the air, and then, the camera clatters against the bed and the world spins. 

Tony groans as Steve covers him, squirming against his still cuffed hands. 

“Stay still, baby,” Steve grits. 

And he does. 

He goes still and pliant, hands and cuffs digging into his back as Steve shoves his sweats down and wraps a hand around his cock. 

He’s  _ pretty,  _ thick and fat and curved just a little, the head wet and glistening in the low light and Tony whines, mouth watering. 

“Daddy,” he whimpers and Steve makes this noise, punched out and  _ wounded _ and comes, spilling all across Tony’s lace covered belly. 

Tony blinks down at it stupidly, the white warmth seeping into and staining the lace and Steve’s head bent over him, shoulders heaving, and silver hair hanging messy in his eyes. 

“Fuck, Daddy,” he breathes, and Steve laughs, grinning up at him unrepentantly. 

“You’re fucking irresistible,” Steve says. 

Tony huffs. “You’ve done pretty fuckin’ well, resisting.”

Steve’s expression softens, and he leans up, kisses Tony feather soft, while a big hand covers his belly. 

He rubs it in, smears it into the lace and silk and his skin, and Tony makes a noise against Steve’s hungry mouth, shocked and hot and a tiny bit outraged. 

“Hush, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs against his mouth, kissing him quick. “I’ll buy you a new one.” 

Tony sighs and allows him to do it, allows Steve to mark him, until he finally sighs, content and says, softly. “Let’s get you outta those cuffs.” 

Tony curls against his chest, after his wrists are free, and lets Steve fuss over them, rub at them until he’s putty and almost purring, and Steve is quiet, fingers playing in his curls. 

“Daddy?” he asks, softly. 

“Hmm?” 

“Will you let me blow you?” Tony asks and Steve laughs, a big chest shaking that makes Tony prop up on his elbow and glare down at him. 

“Yeah, baby. If you’ll let me take you out,” Steve bargains and Tony softens, lips tipping up into a helpless smile. 

“Ok,” he murmurs and Steve grins. 

“Ok.” Steve leans up and kisses him, quick and then rolls out of bed. “You can get a shower, if you want. I’m gonna make you something to eat.” 

Tony reaches for the sweater on the corner chair, a big black knit thing that smells faintly of paint and  _ Steve _ and slips it over his head. 

Steve stills, staring at him, and Tony smiles, all false innocence. 

He knows what he looks like, barefoot and bare legs, the sweater hanging too big over his hands and drooping off his shoulder, baring the lace strap of his lingerie. 

He smells like sex and come, and Steve is draped over him from the bruise on his throat to the come on his belly to the sweater he’s wearing, and Tony  _ knows _ , he’s been doing this long enough to  _ know _ what that he’s doing to Steve. 

He smiles, and sidles close to Steve and revels in the way Steve’s hands come up, automatically, clenching on his hips and holding him close. 

“What’s for dinner, Daddy?” 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AO3 was being weird about updates last time, so please note this is chapter 7, and chapter 6 should def be read first if you missed it! :)

Tony studies the bouquet of roses, bemused. They’re large and red and fragrant, waxy petals and shiny green leaves, sprinkled with baby’s breath, terribly cliche and utterly gorgeous. 

“Cliches are cliches for a reason,” he mumbles, and pivots on fluffy socks to pad into the kitchen and shove the roses haphazardly into a vase. 

They’ll look strange and lovely in the workshop, even if he will have to chase DUM-E away from them. 

There’s a note, small and white and elegant and he plucks it free as he walks to the workshop, inhaling the fragrant scent absently. 

_ I’ll pick you up tomorrow, at eleven a.m. Dress casually. -Steve _

Tony smiles and puts the note and roses where he won’t be able to miss seeing them, and goes back to coding. 

~*~ 

He’s waiting impatiently the next day, arguing with DUM-E--a one sided argument at best--about his shoes when the buzzer goes off, and Tony makes a noise that no one--DUM-E certainly doesn’t count--would call a shriek. 

He stumbles on his sneakers to the door, tugging the leather coat he stole from Rhodey on, and opens the door to find Steve rocking on his heels. 

He’s carrying a messy bouquet of--”Are those wildflowers?” Tony blurts, startled. 

Steve smiles, pleased, and extends them to Tony. “Do you like them, sweetheart?” 

Tony is quiet as he takes them, hands trembling a little. “My Ana used to keep a field of wildflowers,” he says, absently. “She’d make me flower crowns and they filled up the kitchen--sometimes, if I was having a bad week, she’d stick some in my bedroom. Howard  _ hated _ them.” 

He gives Steve a wobbly smile, and says, “Lemme--I gotta--” Steve nods, and follows him into the messy apartment while Tony darts into the kitchen, filling a vase and fussing with the flowers until they’re arranged, chaotic and lovely, to his liking. 

“No one ever gives me wildflowers,” he says, still fiddling with the flowers. “Roses--everyone loves giving me roses. They’re classic and perfect. Wildflowers are a little too--messy--for a boy like me.” 

Steve watches him, eyes wide and luminous and Tony laughs, suddenly, self-conscious. 

“I love ‘em, Daddy,” he murmurs. 

“I’m glad, sweetheart,” Steve says, soft, and Tony shifts as he takes Steve in. His hair is loose and a little bit windblown, hanging around his shoulders and his leather jacket. There’s a pair of aviators hooked into the collar of his shirt, a thick blue henley stretched across his chest and tapering down to butter soft jeans that cling in all the right ways, and black motorcycle boots, scuffed and worn. 

He looks fucking edible, and Tony hangs back for a second, “We could stay in,” he says, suggestive, and Steve laughs, catches his hand, and tugs him out of the apartment. 

Tony grumbles but locks the door and clatters down the steps after Steve and goes stockstill. 

“Daddy,” he breathes, and Steve--smug with that cocky grin, aviators in place--smirks at him, straddling a fucking  _ beast  _ of a Harley. 

“Climb on, baby,” Steve purrs. 

~*~

Tony doesn’t pay much attention to where they’re going. He’s wrapped around Steve Rogers, pressed against his broad back, a gorgeous machine vibrating between his legs, and he doesn’t care if they go sit in a parking garage, if it means he gets to do this some more. 

Eventually though, Steve pulls to a stop and nudges Tony away, “We’re here, sweetheart.”

Tony blinks, and pulls away from him. Steve helps him pull off his helmet and laughs a little, ruffling Tony’s curls back into shape, and Tony huffs, batting his hands away and carefully finger combing his hair. 

“Of course you look perfect,” he grumbles, and Steve grins.

“Wanna muss me up?” he teases. 

“If you wanted that, we should have stayed in,” Tony sasses and Steve laughs, catching his hand. “Did you really bring me to Coney Island?” Tony asks, blinking at the lights and noise ahead, the rickety clacking of rides and the scent of popcorn filling the air. 

“Do you not like it?” 

Tony shakes his head, a small smile curling at the edges of his lips. “Rhodey brings me here, when I’m upset with Howard. It’s--comforting. No one ever brings me to Coney Island, Steve, I’m--”

_ Too expensive _ .  _ Too high maintenance. Too fuckable. _

No one brought a whore to Coney Island, because they only bought a whore to fuck them or use them. And no one brought Tony Stark here either, because he was  _ Tony Stark.  _

“Why does Rhodey bring you?” Steve asks, soft, drawing him back.

“Because he knows the physics of the rides riles me up,” Tony says, cheerfully and Steve laughs and squeezes his hands. 

“Show me.”

Tony grins. 

~*~

It’s perfect. 

Not the kind of perfect that he always finds here, with Rhodey, but a better kind of perfect, layered with the warmth of Steve’s body bracing his as they wait in line for the Wonder Wheel. It’s a better kind of perfect, filled with tiny nuggets of knowledge--Steve and Bucky came here, Rhodey threw up the first time he dragged Tony on the Cyclone, Tony never came here when he was growing up, Steve has a ridiculous sweet tooth--that round out what he already knows. 

There’s more too. There’s stories about Peggy and Angie, about Bucky and Natasha, about his years in the Army. There’s quiet confessions about Stark Resilient, half voiced hopes and Steve’s sparkling eyes and curious questions. 

“I built Resilient because I wanted to piss Dad off. I think everyone knows that--but I didn’t expect it to be so successful. I didn’t expect to want to change things, with it.” 

“Like what?” Steve asks. He’s picking at cotton candy, but his gaze is trained on Tony, eyes bright and intent, and Tony realizes abruptly that he loves this man, with pink cotton candy stuck in his beard and wind in his silver hair and bright eyes intent on him, kind and seductive and  _ interested _ in every fucking thing Tony has to say. 

“Baby?” Steve asks, soft, and Tony blinks. 

He goes up on tiptoes and kisses Steve instead of answering his question. Steve makes a startled noise, and his arm comes around Tony’s waist, pressed him close and nips at Tony’s lips, sticky sweet and drugging and Tony might have started this kiss, but Steve takes it, makes it hot and dirty and perfect and he stumbles a little when Steve pulls back. He’s smiling softly, and Tony reaches up, wipes at the cotton candy pink and licks his thumb. 

“C’mon, Daddy, I want a stuffed animal,” he says, and Steve squeezes his hand. 

~*~ 

Tony peers at the shop. “Steve--”

“Come on, Tones,” Steve cajoles.

He’s standing there with a small grin on his face, hopeful and so damn pretty and Tony sighs. “You can’t go overboard.” 

“Coney Island wasn’t overboard,” Steve points out, reasonably and Tony huffs a little, sliding off the motorcycle and letting himself be led inside the boutique. 

“Mr Rogers,” a smooth voice says, and Tony looks over as a slim, red-haired woman walks over. She’s pretty, pale and bright eyed and smiling at Steve. “Is this your Tony?” 

Steve’s arm is draped over his shoulders, and Tony flushes a little at the words, at the way Steve draws him close and almost preens. “He is.” 

“You’re lovely,” she breathes, circling him. “Steve had some ideas for what you might like, but do you have any requests?” 

Tony blinks at her, and she blushes, prettily, “I’m Karen, by the way.” 

“I like to be pretty,” Tony says, and Steve gives a tiny shiver he only notices because he can  _ feel _ it. 

Interesting. Karen’s eyes are bright and happy but her smile has gone sharp.

“We’re going to have fun. Come on, then.” 

Karen, Tony decides quickly, is a  _ gem. _ She’s already pulled some clothes that Steve had requested, but she stands Tony, in his jeans and sweatshirt and mussed hair, in front of a trifold mirror and says, “I know he’s paying--but I want to know what you like.” 

The boutique is closed, just him and Karen and Steve, sitting sipping his wine, a small smile on his lips as he watches Tony and Karen going back and forth over fabrics, textures and fits. 

It’s ridiculous and Karen watches him running his fingers over the soft satin and smiles. “You don’t need this at all, do you?”

Tony arches an eyebrow. “I’m Tony  _ Stark. _ I don’t  _ need _ anyone taking care of me.” 

“But you let him,” she says. Tony glances over, unsurprised to find Steve’s gaze trained on him. 

“It makes him happy,” he says. “And just because I don’t need it--doesn’t mean it’s not nice, sometimes.” 

Karen is quiet and still, watching him, and she smiles, bright and mischievous. “Do you trust me?” she asks, and Tony cocks his head. 

“Yes,” he says and Karen squeals. 

~*~ 

He’s in one of the leather pants that Karen shoved at him, a red silk shirt half buttoned while Karen has a whispered argument with someone in the back of the shop, when he feels large hands settle on his hips. “Tell me to stop,” Steve murmurs, and Tony shivers, lets his weight sag into Steve’s sure grip. 

“Don’t stop,” he breathes, and Steve’s hands flex on his hips, his lips brushing the nape of his neck, laying wet sucking kisses on the bare skin, fingers skimming over the planes and scars of his chest, softly caressing with one big hand, while the other drags Tony’s hips back, rocking into him and Tony’s head falls back on a groan, grinding into Steve’s hard cock. 

It’s slow and almost dreamlike, the gentle fingers dragged over his skin interspersed with the hard biting kisses that make him jolt against the hard body cradling him, and he wants to revel in it, in this moment, surrounded by Steve’s big broad body and his soft warm hands and the whole fucking day, like some kind of slow syrup seduction. 

“Steve,” he gasps and Steve groans, grip tightening for a heartbeat before he gentles the touches and the kisses. “No,” Tony whines. “Don’t  _ stop.”  _

Steve laughs, a huff of amusement, before he steps away completely. “You make me forget myself, baby,” he murmurs, and Tony thinks it’s everything he never knew he wanted, with Steve. 

~*~ 

Karen orders Steve to the back room, a dark alcove where Tony can hear a deep male voice murmuring, and she smiles at his questioning look. “Frank. The owner. He’s reclusive,” she waves a hand, dismissive. “He’ll take care of Mr. Rogers. I have something special for you.” 

Her eyes are sparkling and Tony follows her, curious, and feels his breath catch when she leads him into the dressing room. 

The suit is black, a deep shining black that makes him thing, involuntarily, of star speckled skies. It’s fitted and lovely, but it’s the shirt that makes his heart drop and pound. He slips it on with trembling fingers, and brushes the soft pink fabric flat, sliding on the suit jacket and staring at himself. 

It’s a suit, and it’s elegant, accenting his long strong lines, his narrow waist and fantastic ass. 

It’s a suit, and it’s nothing he hasn’t worn a thousand times before--until he examines, once again, the shirt. A pale pink button down, with sheer shoulders that show his delicate collar bones and pale skin before the solid collar. It’s delicate and feminine and he loves it so much it makes him dizzy. 

“And there’s this,” Karen says, and he twists, looking at her. 

She’s holding a coat, a long sweeping black thing with a luxurious fur collar and Tony makes a breathless noise, making Karen giggle as she comes and helps him into it. 

“You’re gonna knock him dead,” she murmurs, and Tony grins, ducking his head. “Come back to us--we’d love to continue dressing you. And,” she grins, dirty and teasing, “I wanna know how tonight goes.” 

Tony laughs, and he’s still laughing as Karen leads him back to the main room. 

Steve is waiting, and Tony goes quiet, his smile small and hopeful as he stares. Steve’s beautiful, his hair long and loose around his face, a cascade of silver around his strong features, a dark fitted suit that seems to emphasis his broad shoulders and narrow waist and long, strong legs. He’s wearing a tie, and for just a moment, staring at him, Tony sees the overlay of the man he met, that day in the cafe, a strange overlay over  _ his  _ Steve, the man who takes care of him and spoils him, the one who makes him feel  _ safe.  _

“Bambi,” Steve breathes and that other Steve, the one he doesn’t know and trust, vanishes, replaced by  _ his  _ Steve and he steps forward, across the little space that separates them until he’s standing in the warm circle of Steve’s arms, and the whole world is just this, just  _ Steve _ and the safety of him. 

“Like it, Daddy?” he whispers and Steve leans down, kisses him. 

It’s hard and hot, a brutal kind of kiss. It’s teeth and tongues and hard hands gripping him tight, fingers tangled in his hair. 

It’s the sharp bite of dominance he keeps getting glimpses, glimpses that Steve always seems to shy away from and he groans and gives himself up to it, pliant and soft under Steve’s heavy demands until there’s a soft cough behind them. 

Karen Page is smiling, a pretty blush in her cheeks as she watches. “I don’t mind the show, gentlemen, but--your ride is here.” 

Steve tucks Tony a bit closer to him, a low noise that isn’t quite a growl rumbling in his chest that makes Tony laugh and lean into him. 

“Thank you, Ms. Page,” he says, cheeky and Steve nods, appreciation glinting in his gaze before he escorts Tony from the shop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This date was getting too long so we'll get the rest of it next chapter!!


	8. Chapter 8

When they exit the shop, Tony stiffens. Bucky Barnes is standing there, holding the keys to a truly gorgeous classic car, a small smirk on his face. His eyes skim over Tony, quick and easy and respectful. 

“Lookin’ good, kid,” he says with a grin. 

Natasha smacks him, and he flinches away, glaring a little at her. “Behave,” she orders. She plucks the keys from his hands and tosses them at Steve. “Have fun, Cap.” 

She smiles at Tony, a little bit softer, and tugs Bucky toward where the Harley is waiting, swinging on and waiting impatiently for Bucky to settle behind her.

Tony watches, bemused, and Steve tugs at his hand, until his attention swings back to him. 

“Bucky lets her drive?” 

“Baby boy, there is very little anyone  _ lets  _ Nat do,” Steve says, smiling. “Come on--we’ve got a ways to go, still.” 

He lets himself be led, because there is nowhere he wouldn’t go, if Steve Rogers was leading him. 

~*~ 

The car is breathtaking. 

He didn’t notice at first, but as Steve tucks him into the passenger seat and circles to the driver’s side, Tony takes a second to appreciate the fine lines of the 67 Chevy Camero, the deep brown leather seats that wrap around him like butter. It’s flawless, and he wants, desperately to slide behind the wheel and drive. 

Until Tony watches Steve, the quiet competence and control as he shifts and steers, weaving through traffic with an ease that’s breathtaking, one hand hooked over the steering wheel, a kind of indolent sprawl to his slouch in the driver’s seat. 

For a moment, shifting in his seat, cock fattening in his panties, he hates Karen and the damn suit pants she shoved him in. Steve smirks at him, like he  _ knows _ what he’s doing, and Tony snorts. 

He probably does. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, instead of addressing the simmering arousal or the fact that he wants to lean across the gear shift to take Steve’s cock in his mouth while they drive. 

He’s given road head before. It wouldn’t be  _ too _ dangerous. His daddy would never let him get hurt. 

“Do what?” Steve asks, innocently and it distracts him briefly, pulls his attention away from the mouthwatering bulge to scowl at him. Steve is smiling, small and placid and Tony’s scowl deepens. 

“You don’t have to  _ buy _ me,” he says, and it’s biting, bitter in a way that startles him and makes Steve flash a glance at him, the smile falling away to bright concern. 

“I’m not--I’m with you, today--because I want to be. I did the sessions, I’m  _ doing _ the sessions, because I want to. I gave the money to your foundation because I want you to be different, I don’t want you to buy me.” 

“Tony,” Steve says, sharply. 

“You don’t  _ have _ to--”

“I know,” Steve says, sharp and cutting across the words that are picking up speed and urgency. “I  _ know _ , Bambi.”

He deflates against the seat, and Steve reaches for him, squeezes his hand. “I didn’t do it because I have to. I spoiled you because I want to. Because you deserve to be taken care of and cherished and spoiled,” Steve says, firmly. 

Tony stares at him, eyes bright and Steve studies him, eyes cutting between him and the road rapidly. “Did I overstep?” he asks, and Tony shakes his head, almost before he chooses to. 

“I--no,” Tony says, and there’s frustration leaking into his voice. 

Steve is quiet, gaze trained on the road, giving Tony space. 

“I  _ liked _ it,” Tony says. “ _ You _ decided, and I like it, when you decide for me. When you take control. I just--I need you to know it’s not  _ necessary.”  _

They drive for a few more moments, and Tony fidgets in his seat, fingers clenching on his pants before Steve finally speaks. “Sweetheart, I want you to listen carefully to me. This is important, and I need you to hear me.” Steve glances at him, lightening quick and Tony manages a nod. “I understand what you do and you’ve explained  _ why _ . I won’t pretend like I am happy to share you--I’m a possessive and jealous bastard and I don’t want to share you. But this--this isn’t me buying you. This is me taking care of you because you’re mine. Because you are my baby and I have the privilege and the pleasure of spoiling you. Not because I  _ have _ to, but because I  _ want _ to.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then, “We haven’t really talked about the dynamics, sweetheart. I don’t want to overstep, take control you don’t want to give me.” 

Tony pouts, sinks into his seat with a pretty scowl. “I  _ have  _ safewords. I’ll use them, if I need to. You like it, when I kneel for you, when I submit, and you won’t give in the way we both want. I just. You’re  _ allowed _ to be my Dom, Daddy. I  _ want _ you to.” 

Steve glances at him, eyes searching and Tony watches him, heart pounding. 

He’s not allowed to ask for this. He’s here to be  _ used _ . He’s  _ chosen _ that. 

But he thinks--maybe. Maybe with Steve--he  _ is.  _

Finally, Steve smiles, a dark promising thing, and nods. “Alright, sweetheart.” 

~*~ 

They drive two hours out of the city, to a planetarium situated on a hill upstate, and Tony blinks at it, then stares at Steve, questioning and Steve smiles. “Do you like space, sweetheart?”

Tony  _ grins _ , bright and unfettered, the unabashed joy that for a moment forgets cameras and performance, that is bright and happy for the sake of science and  _ knowledge.  _ “Fucking  _ love it,”  _ he says, fervent, and Steve laughs. 

“Come on, then.” 

~*~ 

Steve holds his hand, and it’s distracting, the broad hands with calluses on his fingers and strength in his grip, hands he’s familiar with and dream about, and it takes a few minutes to focus on the exhibits, and then he loses himself in them, only distantly aware of Steve at his side as he wanders through the exhibit about astronomy in world cultures, tug him along behind as they walk through the Manhattan skyscape. He’s breathless over an exhibit of the moon, circling it slowly, before he finally says, a hushed secret, “I wanted to go to space, when I was a boy.” 

“Why didn’t you?” Steve asks, an arm snaking around his waist. “You’re brilliant enough.”

Tony taps his chest, the scars throbbing slightly, an old familiar pain. “Heart problems, after the kidnapping, would have drummed me out, even if Howard had allowed me to go. SI’s heir running off to space was a bad look, he said.” Tony’s lips twist, a wry smile. “He never was very supportive of things I wanted, if they didn’t involve designing better weapons.” 

Steve watches him, and then, softly, almost tentatively, “Is that why you struggle with praise, bambi?” 

Tony blinks at him, and Steve  _ blushes _ , ruddy splotches above the dark of his beard. “Sorry that was--”

“I have daddy issues,” Tony says, frankly. “It’s not surprising, and it’s not a secret. But yeah--that’s probably part of it.” 

Steve squeezes his hand, and Tony glances back at the moon, wistful, before he focuses on Steve. “Where are we going?” 

Surprise flares across Steve's face, but he covers it well, and he leads Tony to a large dimly lit room with a huge domed roof. 

There’s a table set in one corner, and near the center of the room, a pile of fluffy white blankets and pillows and the room is--

Tony blinks, and looks at Steve. “We’re alone,” he says, blankly. 

“We are,” Steve says, agreeably. “Well--the chef is here, and the center’s director. But--”

“Where is the event?” Tony demands. 

“There is no event, sweetheart. You--this isn’t an event. It’s a date.”

“But--why would--I don’t understand,” Tony says, plaintively. Why  _ bring  _ him here. 

“You like space,” Steve says, gently, like that--that is the whole of it, like Tony’s geeky interest in the stars is enough for a two hour drive and a private night together. 

He thinks that  _ maybe _ \--maybe it is. For Steve, it is. 

~*~ 

The table is small and there's a candle burning on it, and Tony sits across from Steve and sips his wine as a chef carries out their salads. 

"Did you like coming to places like this, when you were a kid?" Steve asks and Tony smiles. 

"Jarvis would bring me, when Mama was busy and Howard didn't demand my help in the lab. It was never for long, but it was enough. When I was about six, right before boarding school, Jarvis gave me this giant book of constellations. It was my prized possession. I bought a pack of those little glow in the dark stickers from another kid, recreated as many as i could on my ceiling." Tony laughs, a little self conscious. "I was a nerd. Got beat up all the time, until people realized who my dad was, and then they just ignored me." 

"Sounds lonely," Steve says, softly and Tony shrugs. "It was--but there were good things, too. I built my first robot because I was lonely, and I still have DUM-E, can't imagine my life without him." 

"Pretty impressive?" 

Tony laughs, a sharp back of noise. "No, no--He's a goddamn tragedy. But." He shrugs, and smiles, and Steve watches, soft and fond, like babbling about a robot is completely normal, like it's fascinating. "He's mine. My first friend, and he might be a disaster, but I am too, and he loves me anyway." 

"You're a great big softie, aren't you?" Steve says, sitting back and studying him. There's a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, because there always is, when he looks at Tony. "You act like this classy pretty thing, got the whole city fooled--and you  _ are _ , you're gorgeous and can run circles around the socialites. But you've got a big heart, Tony." 

He squirms a little, and Steve's gaze sharpens, just a little. "You're a good person, darling. I don't know how the whole world can't see that, but I'm damn glad they didn't." 

"Why?" Tony breathes, and Steve smiles. 

"Because it means they haven't snatched you up yet. You're still here because the rest of the world is too fucking stupid to see what you're worth." 

"Steve," Tony protests, lightly. 

Steve shakes his head. "They don't see what I do, and that's ok--because I don't wanna share you with them." 

Tony is still, watching him, candlelight flickering in dark, intent eyes. "I told you before," Steve murmurs. "I want to keep you. If you'll let me--I want to keep you." 

The thing is--

The thing is that he's a pretty whore. His father hates him, the city wants to use him. There's always been a question of what Tony can do for the people around him--it's the driving force in almost every relationship he's ever had. 

But Steve--

Steve keeps saying this shit, keeps acting like he wants  _ Tony _ , the boy whose father hated him, who loves the stars and broken bots and looks pretty on his knees. 

Not Tony Stark. 

And he has no fucking clue what to do with that. 

~*~ 

They end up in the pile of blankets, and Tony thinks for a moment that it’s going to be exactly what it looks like--a very expensive seduction.

Steve just arranges himself in the blankets and pillows, and tugs Tony down so that he's nestled against Steve's chest, and when Tony squirms, anxious, against his chest, he tightens his grip just a little. "Watch, sweetheart."

There's a layer of command in his voice and it makes Tony melt against the sheets, body lax and loose. 

The room goes dark, briefly, and then--

The galaxy explodes across the darkness, and for a heartbeat, before he remembers where he is, he can pretend he’s in the stars. He watches them, breathless and entranced and it’s the first time he’s been held in Steve’s arms and not been completely entranced by him. 

"I didn't like the stars the way that you do," Steve murmurs. "Grew up poor in Brooklyn, didn't get much of a chance to see 'em, not til I shipped out, and then I spent so much time tryin' to survive, I didn't spend a whole lotta time looking at 'em. But sometimes, we'd be out on a night patrol, and we'd be sitting under some desert sky and, baby, you gotta see the stars in the desert---the sky so big you can touch it, and the stars so bright they can light up the moonless night. I kept thinkin', this is what Brooklyn couldn't give me, and I fell in love with it, right then." 

The galaxy spins around them, the big bang and a black hole and the Milky Way, binary stars and Steve's voice, steady and sure and grounding in his ear. 

"I went all the way around the world and every damn time I looked up, I wondered if that's what the stars looked like in Brooklyn, past the lights and all. And then I looked at you and the stars in your eyes, Bambi." He laughs, this breathless thing that drives Tony up, onto his knees to stare down at Steve. 

"You've got stars in your eyes, baby," Steve breathes, "Prettier than any sky I've ever seen." 

Tony makes a noise and the hand on his neck tightens and they're kissing, this breathless desperate sort of thing that makes him whine as he fights the hard grip on him. 

"Shh," Steve breathes against his mouth and Tony  _ sobs _ . 

"Shh, c'mon now, sweetheart," he murmurs, grip flexing on his neck and Tony lets himself go, goes boneless. 

Steve lowers him, careful and soft, to his back, lays him down and eases over him. 

"Thought about this," he murmurs, and Tony blinks at him, dazed. "Thought about what it'd be like, to have you here. Get you stipped down and naked, suck your pretty cock."

His cock jerks, and he groans and Steve  _ smiles _ . 

"Thing is, though, honey," Steve says, slowly. "You said you want me to be your Dom." 

His breath freezes, and he can barely hear over the pounding of his heart and Steve's watching him, bright and careful and waiting. "Yeah," Tony rasps, "Daddy--please, Daddy." 

Steve smiles and shifts. 

Opens up his pants and Tony watches, transfixed, as he pulls his cock out. "Want you to suck me off, baby," he murmurs, soft and Tony has a heartbeat where all he can think is  _ fucking finally _ and  _ dear god please _ and then warm wet smears across his lips and Steve is pushing in, flooding his mouth with the taste of him, the weight heavy and grounding and he can't breathe for how  _ good _ it is. 

Steve's weight is straddling his chest and his thighs flex and bunch under Tony's greedy hands, his head tipped back, silver hair gleaming in a star-spangled dark universe and there's raw pleasure on his face, so fucking beautiful he wants to cry. 

He takes it, everything his daddy wants to give him, because he’s a good boy and a greedy one, take it, while Steve thrusts and groans, these bitten off things, curses and breathless whispers of his name, and the salty bitter precum smears across his tongue and he sucks, greedy for  _ more _ , and he wants it to never end. 

He swallows, when Steve comes, trembling and groaning his name and he comes untouched and fully clothed and riding the high of being  _ used _ , of being  _ wanted _ , of the bright look in Steve's eyes that looks a helluva a lot like love. 

He swallows and Steve stares down at him, lazy sated and adoring and he thinks,  _ I want to see you like this, always.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nod to the car RDJ gave Cevans in a truly spectacular sugar daddy move, and FINALLY--some fucking communication.


	9. Chapter 9

“It was perfect,” Tony says, sighing a little. Rhodey sits across from him, a bemused frown on his face, his blackened fish sandwich all but forgotten. 

“It sounds like it,” Rhodey says, slowly.

Tony stiffens across from him. He _knows_ that tone, the one that’s a little bit doubtful, a worried kind of cautious. He’d become _intimately_ familiar with that tone when they were in college, when Tony’s bad ideas so often resulted in structural damage. 

He’s using it now, about a date and Tony frowns. “You don’t believe me,” he accuses. 

“I believe _you_ ,” Rhodey says. “But--you don’t think it’s weird, that it’s so perfect?”

“What do you mean?” 

Rhodey sighs. “He sent you roses and brought you wildflowers--your favorite. He took you to Coney Island, which you love. He took you to stare at the stars. The shopping, the gifts--it’s all too much.” 

“He likes giving me gifts,” Tony says, defensive. 

Rhodey snorts, “But _those_ gifts? Tones, if someone asked me what a sure fire way to seduce you is, I don’t think even I’d cover all of those. How’d _this_ guy manage to get you so spot on?” 

Tony blinks at him, and Rhodey shrugs. “This job you do--you know it can be dangerous, even when it’s not creeps like Stone. Remember Hammer?” Tony shudders and Rhodey nods, agreeable. “So you gotta gimme this--it’s weird, right?” 

“Why--can’t he just _like_ me?” 

Rhodey softens and reaches across the table to squeeze Tony’s hand. “Yeah, peacock. He can. He should. I just--I want you to be smart about him, ok?” 

He doesn’t like it. But he nods, and Rhodey leans back, satisfied. 

~*~ 

It bothers him, is the thing. Once Rhodey’s put it in his head, he can’t quite shake it. 

It bothers him when he’s working in his lab and when he goes out with one of his clients and when he’s lying in bed, waiting for sleep. 

It bothers him enough that when Steve texts him good morning, he can’t quite stop himself from responding. 

**Tony** : You brought me wildflowers. 

**SG Rogers:** I did. 

**Tony** : why wildflowers

 **SG Rogers:** You liked them. 

**Tony:** but you didn’t know that before you brought them

 **Tony:** you ever think something is too perfect?

 **Tony:** Men like you don’t happen to boys like me, Steve. 

His phone rings and he blinks at it for a moment, before answering, Steve’s voice filling the line before he can say anything. 

“You keep saying that. Boys like you. There are no _boys like you_ , Tony. And if I hear you say that one more time, I’ll spank your pretty ass raw.” 

He shivers and smiles. “You promise? 

That earns him a growl and Steve grumbles down the line at him. “Why are you asking this, sweetheart?” 

“Good things don’t happen to me, Daddy,” he says. “People think because I was born Tony Stark, I have this charmed life--but it’s never been like that. And you--you’re everything I didn’t know I wanted. You’re _sweet_ and you know exactly how to spoil me and it--I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall.”

There’s a long silence, and then, “Maybe there isn’t another shoe, baby. Maybe I just want to take care of you and you deserve that.” 

“I never have before,” he says. 

“Maybe no one elese knew how to take care of you the way you need,” Steve murmurs. “I do.”

“Do you?” Tony asks, yearning. 

“What are you doing, baby?” Steve asks, his voice slipping deep and rough and Tony closes his eyes. 

“What do you want me to do?” 

There’s a breathless moment and then he rumbles, a heady warm noise down the line. “I want you to get yourself hard, sweetheart. Take your time with it. Think about how I’d touch you, and how you’d squirm for me, how pretty you’d look, all flushed, that pretty cock of yours leaking.” He pauses and Tony whines, his hand stilling on his cock, aching for that steady strong voice in his ear. 

“I want you to take a picture, sweetheart. Get yourself right up to the edge, and then, before you come--stop. And take a picture for me.”

“Daddy,” he gasps, and Steve laughs before he hangs up. 

~*~ 

Later, when he has taken the picture and come all over his belly, when he’s laying sleepy and sated in bed, his phone vibrates and he reaches for it lazily. 

**SG Rogers:** perfect. you’re perfect, pretty boy. 

~*~ 

He doesn’t think about it much. He doesn’t let himself. 

He works in the lab on a new prothesis and signs a mountain of paperwork for Pepper and he goes on two dates with clients that rub him the wrong way before he texts Rhodey. 

**Peacock:** what if i quit

 **Honeybear:** means you could focus on SR

 **Honeybear:** why do you want to quit?

 **Peacock** : i’ve wanted to for a while

 **Honeybear** : you keep talking about it, but you don’t actually do it

 **Peacock** : sometimes feels like doing this to spite Howard isn’t a good reason

 **Peacock** : feels like i’m fucking myself over to piss off a man i hate. 

**Honeybear** : do you think being happy with Steve would piss him off more?

 **Peacock** : it’s not about Steve. 

**Peacock** : not all of it

 **Honeybear** : whatever you need to tell yourself. 

Tony snorts and goes back to work. 

~*~ 

The day before the next session with Steve, he comes home from a luncheon where he was the pretty arm candy for a socialite fresh off her third divorce, and he finds a long thin box waiting with a bouquet of tulips. 

He plucks the card free and carries the box to his bedroom. 

The note is thicker and heavy. 

_Come to the brownstone tomorrow. Wear this. I’ve included a key--let yourself in and undress. Kneel on the bed, and wait for me._

He stares at it for a long moment, the orders written in elegant black ink, and smiles. 

He texts Steve two words, and silences his phone. 

**Tony** : yes, daddy. 

~*~ 

He dresses down for the session, wears a pair of soft sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt he stole from Rhodey sophomore year. He's careful with his hair and makeup, and selects a pair of heeled boots that look strange under the sweats, but he thinks Steve will appreciate them. 

He doesn't _have_ to dress up for Steve, not when he was going to be stripping before Steve saw him. 

It was the key in his hand, though, that was unsettling him, that kept making him feel like he was spinning in a thousand directions, and he squeezes it again as he slips out of the cab and stares up at the brownstone. 

The metal bites into his palm, comforting dull pressure that centers and calms and he climbs the steps and lets himself in. 

There's a note sitting on the kitchen bar, with a small white box. 

_Wear this._

He opens it carefully and blinks down at the collar. It's thin, delicate where the last one had been thick and black. It's filigree rose gold, a collar that is more decorative than practical, a pretty ornament. 

It's _gorgeous_ , would fit so well with his jewelry and style that it's--

He frowns at it, brushes delicate fingers over the twisting gold and inhales. 

He strips in the en suite, quick and efficient, folds his clothes in a neat pile before he leans forward, fluffing his curls and dabbing at his lipstick until he's satisfied. The collar he clips on with shaking fingers and then he slips back into his boots and surveys himself. 

The panties are black and sheer, but almost modest--cupping him nicely, covering his ass, a high waist cut. The bralette is the same sheer black, a tiny scallop of lace edging. His boots are thigh high--his hooker boots made of black shining vinyl that Rhodey had laughed and given them to him when he'd first decided to go into the escort business. 

Rhodey'd blushed for days when he realized that Tony was actually wearing them for clients. 

He looks--he looks beautiful, even with his scars so vivid and ugly. He looks delicate and feminine, and his breath catches a little, staring at himself. 

He almost understands why Steve stares at him, bright and intent and hungry, when he looks like this. 

Tony laughs a little, goes into the bedroom and kneels on the bed, boots creaking as he positions himself, hands held at his back, head tipped down, patient and lovely. 

He waits, under the picture that almost mocks him and is strangely comforting, with the scent of Steve wrapped around him and Steve's clothing soft on his skin, his gift wrapped around his throat, and it settles, peaceful and content in his groin, a low simmering arousal that fattens his cock and centers him. 

He relaxes, and waits. 

~*~ 

Time slips a little. 

It's startling when he finally comes to, when the shutter clicks and Steve's footsteps echo softly as he comes closer. He can't see anymore, the room's gone dim. He wants to look up, wants to find Steve in the quiet dark, but instead, he holds himself still. Waiting. 

"Perfect,' Steve breathes, closer than Tony had thought, and he flushes, pleasure coursing through him. 

Steve is happy with him. 

It's intoxicating, what that simple praise does to him. 

"I want you to stay like that, can you do that for me, sweetheart?" 

"Yes, Daddy," he murmurs, and Steve makes a noise, not quite a groan, but something close enough that it burns in him. 

He wants to squirm under the pressure of Steve's gaze, under the lens of the camera. 

He wants to preen under it. 

He doesn't. He holds himself still, deep breathing to calm his pounding heart, and waits for his daddy. 

It feels like an eternity before Steve speaks again. "I want you to lay back now, sweetheart. And I'm going to tell you exactly what I want you to do. And do you know what you're going to do, Tony?" 

Tony shakes his head, and Steve--Steve crouches in front of him, fills up his gaze, all blue and silver and beautiful, and Tony--a thought startles him and he shudders, shoves it away, blinks at him, patient and beautiful. 

Tony wants to weep, with how lovely he is, the way his eyes are shining as he smiles at Tony, all bright adoration and dark want. 

"What, Daddy?" he mumbles and Steve's smile goes dark and almost _mean_ , until he shivers under it. 

"You're going to do _exactly_ what I say." 

Tony nods, and Steve smiles. He brushes a kiss over Tony's forehead, and helps him lie back arranging him just so, and then he says, "I want you to wear this for me."

The blindfold is a strip of rose satin, so sheer it's almost transparent. 

He wordlessly lifts his head and Steve smiles at him, dark and pleased, before he wraps it around Tony's head, ties it carefully. It's layered and he can only see the faintest shadows of light. 

Steve steps away, when he's done, the weight of the bed shifting, and Tony lies still, until Steve says, "I want you to play with yourself for me, sweetheart."

His cock twitches and Steve laughs a little. "Like that, don't you? Here's the thing--I want you to do exactly what I say." 

It hits him, suddenly, what Steve wants, and he _melts_ into the bed, all the tension draining out of him as his cock twitches and thickens. "Yes, Daddy." 

There’s a sharp inhale, beyond the bed and his blurred vision, and he smiles a little. 

“Play with your nipples, sweetheart,” Steve murmurs, his voice dipping into that delicious bite of command that he doesn’t use with Tony, not often, the one he aches for. His hands are moving before he really realizes he’s obeying, fingers plucking and tugging at his nipples through the sheer fabric and he whimpers at the hot line of pleasure that runs like a livewire to his cock. He shifts, hips pushing up into nothing, and Steve--

Steve laughs, rough and teasing. 

He plays with his nipples for what feels like an eternity, while Steve watches, his gaze like a brand, and the camera clicks. 

It’s only when he breaks and _begs_ that Steve groans and says, “Show me your pretty cock, baby boy.” 

He scrambles to obey, to shove the panties down and hook them behind his balls, putting himself on display, the wet flushed head, the long straining length of him, and--

The camera clicks. 

He whimpers and Steve speaks. 

“Wrap a hand around yourself, sweetheart. Yes. Just like that. Perfect. Stroke yourself--ah ah, slow, baby, we’re not in a rush. I want to watch. Mmm, that’s better. Slow. Just rub a thumb over your head. OOh, you like that, don’t you darling. So perfect for me. Go a little faster now, Tony, yeah, just like that.” 

He wants to come. 

He wants to come so bad his teeth ache. 

But it dims, that burning need, under the onslaught of Steve’s voice, rough and raspy and sure, tethering him to the bed as sure as his ropes once held him still. 

He wants to come and he wants, _desperately_ , to obey, to be _good._

“I want you to come, when I tell you, Tony. This is important, darling. Can you come for me, when I tell you?” 

“Yes, daddy,” he says, a soft whispered promise because he can’t imagine not obeying that mesmerizing voice. 

“Faster now, sweetheart.” Steve says, rough and breathless and Tony obeys, strokes himself fast and rough, and--

“Come for me,” Steve breathes and he screams as he comes, light and sound faded away under the wash of pleasure so bright he can’t breathe. 

Come spills across his belly and his cock throbs as he strokes himself and he can feel tears blurring behind his blindfold and he can hear Steve, still. 

“God, sweetheart, you’re--fuck.” 

“Daddy,” he whimpers and Steve grunts, and come spills on his belly. 

Tony groans and Steve--he can feel him now, his big body hot and heavy hanging above him, the huff of his breath against the collar, the come warm on his skin. 

Then Steve shifts and Tony whimpers. 

Fingers skate over his belly, trailing through the come, and two fingers pressing against his lips. 

He opens his mouth, laps at the come and listens to the way Steve’s breath catches in his throat, can feel the way his whole body goes still and tense as Tony suckles on his fingers. 

“I want to see you,” he breathes, when Steve pulls his fingers free. 

The lights are dim enough that it doesn’t blind him, when Steve pulls the blindfold off, and he blinks up at Steve. 

He looks dishevelled, cheeks flushed and hair messy, sprawled naked next to Tony. He wants to trace the tattoos on his arms, the black star and the eagle, the pinup style saint. Across his ribcage, the Brooklyn bridge wraps, a silhouette filled in with a desolate desert mountains. 

He wants to trace them with his tongue, and find out the stories behind them, wants to carve his own place into Steve’s skin. There’s a line of poetry curling around Steve’s thigh and he wants to read it, wants to _know_ this man, and everything that’s important to him. 

Steve presses his fingers, wet with come, to Tony’s lips and the questions die away, replaced by bliss at the awe and adoration shinning in those familiar blue eyes. 

He wants to stay. 

He remembers the thought, intrusive and pushed away, earlier, that he refuses to think about now, and the fierce desire to ink himself into the story on Steve’s skin. 

He wants to stay. 

He wants to be _kept._

“Daddy,” he breathes, when Steve’s looking at the come he’s still cleaning from Tony’s body. “Are you ever going to fuck me?” 

Steve stills. Blue bright find him, study silently. 

“Do you _want_ to fuck me?” he asks, and Steve’s eyes narrow, thoughtfully. 

He doesn’t speak. He _shifts_ Tony, rolls him so that Tony is curled away from him on his side. 

His fingers rub through their come and then--

Tony jerks, when his fingers rub over his hole, smearing the wet mess over him, a hot teasing pressure. 

“Do you think I don’t?” Steve murmurs. “Do you think that I don’t dream about it, about fucking you? I’ve--god, Tony. I want every fucking inch of you. Want to open you up on my fingers and my mouth, until you’re crying for my cock. I’m gonna take you slow, sweet, and you’re not gonna have any fucking clue what to do with that. But when you’re begging for it, for me to let you come--then I’ll fuck you. Fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to breath without remembering the way I filled you up, until you’re coming on my cock. You’ll squeeze me so nice, baby boy, and you get so come dumb when you’ve come, all sweet and soft for me. I can use you just like I want, fuck you ‘til you’re hard again. You could do it, couldn’t you, baby--get hard again for Daddy? Especially if I play with your pretty nipples.” 

He jolts as Steve rubs against his ass and pinches his nipple, and he _is,_ he’s getting hard. Steve’s fingers are playing in his come again, and Tony shudders when a thumb brushes against his lips, sucks at it greedily as Steve shoves two fingers in, gentle and insistent and _not enough_. 

He closes his eyes, sucking at the fingers filling his mouth and thrusting back against the ones in his ass and Steve’s voice is hot and harsh in his ear. “Yeah, baby, I’m gonna fuck you. When I’m ready and you’re fucking _desperate_ , I’m gonna fuck you. But you’ll be good and patient for Daddy until then, won’t you?” 

He nods, frantic and Steve laughs, rough and pleased, and says, “Get yourself off, baby boy.” 

~*~ 

Later, when he’s reclining in the tub and Steve kneels next to it, washing his hair, Steve says. “The exhibit is coming up soon.” 

They only have one session left. 

“Do you want to come with me?” 

He breathes, panic and doubts twisting in him and warring with _everything_ Steve has told him. He breathes and Steve is waiting, patient and quiet and Tony--he wonders. Is it as easy as reaching for him? 

“A job?” he asks, softly and Steve tugs on his curls, until Tony tips his head back and meets his eyes, silver and blue and intent filling his gaze and pushing away the rest of the world. 

“No.” Steve says, firmly. “As my date.” 

It’s dizzying, the relief that floods him and he smiles.

He thinks it again, heart pounding and full of hope, and this time he doesn’t push it away. 

_I want to wear silver and blue, when I marry him._

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Sooner than he’d like, the last session is over. Steve takes him home, after, takes him to breakfast and then home, and he holds Tony’s hand as they walk. It shouldn’t feel like something  _ ending _ , but it does, and he feels scrapped raw, tender and exposed from more than just the wax play and cane earlier in the evening. 

“I want to take you out again,” Steve says, when they’re standing outside Tony’s building and he blinks up at him, at the amused smile curling familiar lips and the soft intent eyes watching him. “I’m going to be busy, getting the exhibit together--but after. I want to take you out.” 

“I won’t see you again, until then.” He says it rather than asks and Steve’s face twitches into regret, before he tugs Tony into him. 

“It won’t be long,” he says, husky and promising and Tony nods against his chest. 

~*~ 

It’s three weeks. 

Pepper says it’s fast, for an exhibit, but the time seems to drag for Tony, even when he starts turning down dates with clients, staying in and focusing on Stark Resilient. 

He churns out three new patents in as many weeks and Pepper is happier than she’s been with him and the state of his paperwork. He doesn’t quite close the escort booking service, but he does ignore it and let nights slip by without responding. 

He doesn’t let himself think too much about  _ why _ or what Steve would say, if he knew. 

It’s not for him, really. 

Sometimes, Tony is very sure he can hear Rhodey laughing at him. 

~*~ 

They talk on the phone almost every day, and as the days slip by, and exhaustion fills Steve’s voice, Tony worries more. 

“You sound like you’re getting sick,” he says, once. 

“No-I’m just tired. I’m finishing the last piece today and I want it to be perfect.”

Tony still hasn’t seen any of the pieces he sat for, and curiosity itches at him like a particularly bothersome mosquito bite. 

He doesn’t ask, though, instead lets his feet kick in the air and says, “What should I wear?”

Steve laughs, soft and warm and not nearly as tired, and Tony smiles, in pleased triumph. 

~*~ 

The next morning, a package is delivered. He isn’t surprised, really, not anymore--Daddy loves to spoil him, and there’s something deliciously decadent about sitting in his bedroom nibbling the expensive liquor filled bonbons Steve sent, and opening his present. 

It’s small, a tiny package that makes his breath catch because he knows--he  _ knows _ it isn’t a ring, they aren’t even  _ dating _ \--but there’s a part of him that wants it to be. 

He opens it with trembling fingers, and stares at the cuff links. They’re tiny, a delicate lock and key in dark platinum, and there’s no note with the cufflinks, but he doesn’t need one, really. 

He touches the key with a fingertip, the metal solid and heavy under his skin, and smiles to himself. Reaches for his phone. 

“Karen. I need something to wear.” 

~*~ 

The shop is just as quiet and dark as he remembers, but there’s a man on the floor now, dusting lint from a suit coat, and scowling at Tony. 

He’s handsome, but there’s something about his gaze that makes Tony want to step back and duck out of his view. 

“I have an appointment,” he says instead because he’s Tony fucking Stark and he’s never run from anything. 

The other man jerks his head in the direction of the dressing room and scowls deeper when Tony edges past him and deeper into the shop. 

Karen is waiting in the dressing room, fussing with a suit that he loves, instantly. “There’s other options,” she says without looking up. “Classic black. A blue suit. But I think this one is the one you’ll want.” 

He drifts over, drawn by the suit that’s startlingly lovely. It’s a pastel pink, with shimmering embroidered flowers. The cut is trim and almost feminine, and he adores it. 

“This shirt, I thin,” she says, a laugh in her voice. “He’ll lose his mind.” 

“I always make him lose his mind,” Tony says absently, and touches the shirt. It’s white lace, with a high ruffled collar and thin crossing ribbons along the back that reminds him of a corset, and he shivers a little, thinking about Steve peeling him out of it. “No tie?” 

“No tie,” Karen confirms. 

He pouts a little and then produces the little box of cufflinks. “Will this work with these?” 

She makes a soft little noise when she sees them, almost wounded, and there’s an answering noise from the front of the shop. 

Her eyes are bright, curious and shining when she looks at him. “You got it real bad for him, don’t you?” 

“Is it that obvious?” Tony asks, and she smiles. Frank stalks into the room, a prowling presence that makes her mouth and eyes go soft and warm. 

“Maybe a little, if you know what to look for. If it helps at all--he’s just as bad. He adores you, Tony.” 

“You think so?” he asks, hopeful and Frank pauses, where he’s standing almost pressed against Karen’s back, a hand brushing her waist. He studies Tony, dark eyed curious and Karen smiles, sunshine bright. 

They fit together, strange as it looks, he realizes, and he wonders if he and Steve can be like that too--a pretty twink and a silver daddy, an escort and a businessman. 

“He deserves better,” Tony says, shrugging and Frank snorts. 

It startles him, because so far he’s hovered and glowered and nodded in Karen’s general direction--but he’s remained silent. 

“Rogers deserves to be happy. So do you. You don’t get to decide what his happy looks like--only if you’re gonna be in it,” Franks says, his voice a raspy rumble. “Don’t be a dumbass because someone’s been fillin’ your head with lies, son.” 

“Frank,” Karen says, laughing and exasperated and Frank kisses her shoulder absently and then steps away from her to take Tony’s suit. 

~*~ 

He thinks about it a lot, Frank’s words and everything Rhodey has been saying for years about what Tony deserves. 

He thinks most about Steve, about the intent sincerity in his eyes and the way he kept saying it--that he wanted to keep Tony. 

He thinks about it in the week leading up to the exhibit, and while he’s dressing, taking special care with his hair and makeup, sliding on a pair of white panties and garters. He thinks about it when he’s sitting in the back of the limo Steve sent for him, sipping wine and anxious. 

One last date. 

Then--then they could decide, together. He finishes his wine and nods, resolved, and slides out of the car and into the night. 

The gallery is closed to the general public, but it’s the first show Steve Rogers’ has done in three years, and there’s a crowd of media clustered outside, and he smiles for them, a shark sharp smile that he perfected at his mother’s knee, and ignores the questions shouted at him about his date. 

The only question he answers is when the little photographer from the Bugle shouts one about what he’s wearing. Tony pauses, preening and Parker snaps a photo. “Kastle Suits, down in Hells Kitchen,” Tony says, winking, and leaves them behind. 

The gallery is quiet, a hush of murmured conversation as the guests peruse the collection. 

He’s seen some of the pieces. The shattered solider that stands in shadows, almost hidden and eye-catching for it. 

There’s a painting of Natasha on glass, shattered and distorted, twisting her into something both ageless and ancient, gentle and deadly and he stands in front of it for a long time, staring at the enigma. 

He wonders if that’s what she is, and if Peggy is here, in art, and how Steve sees  _ her. _

“Anthony,” a familiar voice calls, and he stiffens. 

Fixes his smile and turns. 

“Howard. Mother. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight,” he says, voice lazy and dismissive, a tone that never fails to drive Howard up the wall. 

Sure enough, his father’s jaw ticks, and Tony smiles. 

“I thought we agreed there’d be no more of your foolishness with Rogers,” Howard says, quiet and even. 

“I know you said something like that. I just--” he shrugged. “Didn’t care.” 

“Didn’t care about what,  _ Antoshka?” _

Tony turns, because the name is unfamiliar, but the tone is warm and friendly and the hand on his back is prompting. Natasha is there, smiling, a dangerous glint to it--but she’s watching  _ Howard _ , moving closer to Tony, almost protective in her dark gown and bright red hair. 

“Oh, nothing. Dad doesn’t think I’m good enough for Steve.” 

Natasha snorts, and takes Tony’s elbow. “Clearly he doesn’t know Steve well enough,” she says dryly. “Excuse me, we’re needed elsewhere.” 

She steers Tony away from his fuming father and silent mother, and Tony decides then and there--he’s going to  _ like _ Natasha. 

“The second part opens in a moment,” she says, “I wasn’t lying. You are needed.”

“Why?” 

She smiles at him, and pats his hand as she all but drags him to a dark hall that’s been roped off. “Because you deserve to see what he does.” 

~*~ 

Natasha stays close to him even after she’s separated him from Howard, looping an arm through his as they slip past the rope and into the dark. “It’ll open in a moment,” she says. 

“You don’t hate me,” Tony says, a little startled and Natasha blinks at him, a smile curving her lips. “Bucky hates me.”

“Bucky definitely does not hate you,” she says, patient and amused. “Bucky is incredibly annoyed with Steve, though.” 

The lights come up slow and Tony’s distracted by the shift in voice behind them and the images revealed by the lights. 

It’s him. 

He knows it’s him. 

That’s his scars and familiar body, kneeling in panties and a black collar. 

That’s his body, stretched out on Steve’s bed, wrapped in silk and knots. 

That’s his cock, his hand, his mouth hanging open in a pant. 

That’s his ass, splattered with wax and stripped red from the cane. 

Those are his hands, delicate and bound and clenching in silent desperation. 

It’s strange, seeing himself like this because he--

He’s pretty. He’s got a ass that won’t quite, a mouth made to fuck, and a smile that’s sweet and mischievous. He’s got a brilliant mind and a million dollar pedigree with the contacts to match. He  _ knows _ what his assets are, even when he ignores his massive intellect. 

But for all of that, he’s never looked at himself the way that he’s looking now, never looked and seen something that’s  _ beautiful. _

He’s looking now, and he can’t breathe through it, through the choking knowledge that 

“This is how he sees me?” he whispers. 

Natasha is quiet for a moment, and then, “Yes, _Antoshka_. This is how he sees you.” 

He stares at the picture of himself--of his body folded in submission, and his head tipped up. It’s the one that he had demanded, the one with his face included, and his eyes are closed, his expression soft and trusting and leaning into the hand that cups his cheek. 

It’s intimate and tender and it’s the hand that captures him--Steve’s hand, the barest hint of his tattoo peeking into frame, the way his fingertips slide into Tony’s short hair and tighten, the gentle possessive curl of his hand around Tony’s cheek, thumb brushing his lips. 

“There’s one other thing,” Natasha murmurs, and Tony blinks at her, dazed. She’s smiling still, but there’s something in her eyes that doesn’t quite match. 

That rings wrong. 

“What?” he asks, lips numb and she squeezes his elbow, and pulls him deeper into the gallery, toward the back. 

Bucky is standing there, and Tony wonders, briefly, where the man of the hour is, and why these two people who should be at his side are lingering over him. 

He wants to find Steve and lean into his side, wants to kiss him and be held close, wants to show everyone staring at those pictures, that Tony  _ belongs _ to him. 

“I’ll be back,” Natasha murmurs and he blinks at her, and then she’s slipping away and Bucky is standing there, shifting a little. 

“I’m sorry. About--that day. I was trying to get Stevie off his ass and it didn’t work--just upset you. It was never my intention. And if it helps at all--I don’t think you’d ever hurt Steve.” 

“Then why did you do it?” 

“Because Steve needed to get off his ass with you,” he says, shrugging. Tony goes still and Bucky smiles. “He still hasn’t told you, has he?” 

There’s blood pounding in his ears and he thinks--he thinks that whatever comes next--he doesn’t want to know. Not when there’s something so eager in Bucky’s eyes, not--

He wants  _ Steve.  _

“Just look,” Bucky says, and his voice. It’s gentle, coaxing. Like he’s talking to a wounded animal. 

Tony looks away--there’s a wave of noise, and he can see a familiar hue of silver, a familiar deep voice rising over the other voices, and he--

“He brought you wildflowers.” 

It makes Tony go still, gaze darting back to Bucky. 

“You’re favorite flowers, right? He sends you your favorite chocolates. His requests for this exhibit-none of them came close to your limits. That collar he put you in.” Bucky pauses, and he flips open a small, tattered sketchbook. 

There’s a sketch there, rough and elegant and a little bit worn, like it’s been thumbed over too many times. 

It’s him. 

His hair is longer and curlier, a hint of baby fat in his cheeks still, and there’s a pair of bracelet cuffs on his wrists as he gestures. 

He remembers that night. 

It was--

“This was two years ago,” he breathes. “When I was--I had just started. I went out with Pepper. I--where did--” he looks up at Bucky, wildly and Bucky watches, patient. 

His fingers are trembling as he flips through the sketchbook and it’s  _ him _ . 

Dozens of sketches of him, dressed up and laughing and scowling at nothing. A few of just his face, the curve of his throat. His hands, the diamond ring from Maria he wears sometimes. 

“He’s been drawing me for--”

“Years,” Bucky says, softly, gently, and it’s the other shoe. 

Finally dropping. 

“Why?” Tony demands, his voice shaking and behind him, he can hear Steve. “Why would he do this?” 

Alarm flickers in Bucky’s gaze and he can’t think about that, because Steve is calling his name. 

Steve is calling his name and there’s a smile in his voice and he’s been  _ lying  _ and Tony--

Tony swallows the last of his wine, and fixes a careful, empty smile on his lips. 

Then he turns and walks past Steve’s outstretched hands, past the beautiful photographs of  _ him _ , past the sculpture and glass and the crowd, past Natasha’s worried gaze and out into the waiting night. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

He gets as far as the sidewalk, still crowded with photographers, before he’s caught. 

“You move fast for someone in heels,” a crisp English accent says and he blinks at Peggy Carter. 

She’s pretty. She’s wearing a red vintage dress, her dark hair curling around her shoulders, and there’s fine thin lines around her eyes, a smile twisting up her lips. Her hand is wrapping around his elbow, a iron tight grip that’s at odds with her gentle smile. There’s something soothing and stern about her. 

“Walk with me, hmm?”

“I’d really rather not,” Tony says, and he’s proud his voice doesn’t tremble. 

“Tony,” Steve says from behind them and he stiffens. Steve sounds confused, worried and lost and Tony hates how much he wants to turn into his arms and hide there, hates how much he still  _ wants  _ Steve. 

“Give us a moment, darling,” Peggy says, firmly and there’s a shuffle of feet behind him. 

“Carter,” Steve says, in that delicious tone that makes Tony’s knees tremble. 

“Don’t take that tone with me, Steven,” Peggy snaps. “Go clean up Barnes’ mess and let me talk to him.”

Steve rumbles, a wordless snarl, and Tony--Tony says, softly, “Please.” 

He doesn’t watch. He doesn’t watch but he can hear Steve retreat, and feel the tension ease in Peggy. 

“He adores you,” she says, soft and musing. 

Tony snorts, pulling away from her. “He’s  _ lied  _ to me,” he snaps. “If he adores me--why the fuck is he lying?” 

Peggy is quiet, and he twists, staring at her. “Bucky knew. Didn’t he--that’s what that fucking day in the brownstone was about.”

“James has a big mouth,” Peggy says, and there’s a hint of apology in her voice, “but he did have good intentions.”

Tony huffs. “He’s got a shit way of showing it.” 

“Well, poppet, he was dealing with Steve’s emotionally stunted ass. It’s not the easiest task.” 

Tony stares at her and she sighs. She reaches for him. “He’s got secrets, Anthony, and you’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to be confused. But you know as well as I do that Steven adores you. So the question really is--will you listen, if he explains?”

“Why the fuck would he? He’s had every opportunity to do so and he hasn’t. He--” Tony chokes, shakes his head. He doesn’t want to get into this, not with Peggy, this woman who is so very important to Steve, who he doesn’t know. 

“Just--don’t ruin something wonderful because Bucky has horrid timing,” Peggy says, gentle. 

“It’s more than that. You know it is.” 

“I do,” she says, and tips her head, studying him. “Do you? And if you do--will you stay and let him explain?”

Tony stares at her and her gaze darts past him. 

Steve’s waiting. He knows Steve is waiting. She smiles at him, squeezes his hand once more and moves past him, toward the gallery. 

She pauses next to Steve, murmuring to him before she walks up the gallery steps, taking the arm of a pretty blonde and going inside. Steve--Steve stays where he is, eyes wide and worried as he stares at Tony. 

He’s beautiful. Stupidly, ridiculously. Tony wants, with a desperation that shakes him, to hate him. 

“Tony,” Steve says cautiously, like he might speak to a wounded animal, and Tony huffs. Steve’s never once used that tone with him and it’s  _ grating _ to hear it now. 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I don’t--I don’t know what Bucky did, that upset you, but I’m sorry and--” 

“Your friend’s a real asshole, Steve. But he didn’t lie to me.” 

Steve comes a little closer and Tony sways toward him, unconscious, before he steps back. He doesn't want to be caught in Steve gravitational force right now. 

“What did I lie about, sweetheart?” Steve asks, softly. “Buck fucked up, I don’t know what he did but he upset--”

“He showed me,” Tony snaps, furious and too loud and Steve goes still. “He  _ showed  _ me the fucking sketchbook, Steve. You gonna tell me what the  _ fuck _ that was?” 

Steve is quiet, staring and pale and there’s something sharp and panicked in his gaze, something that makes Tony’s stomach drop because he isn’t denying it. 

It  _ hurts _ . 

This whole time, he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it has, it’s dropped and he feels like it’s crushing him, and it’s breaking his fucking heart. 

“You’ve been  _ watching _ me.” Tony says, small and breathless with the hurt of it. “For  _ years, _ you’ve watched me. You--”

“Baby, let me explain,” Steve says and Tony laughs, high and shrill. 

He doesn’t want an explanation. He wants to go back to the beginning of the night, when he was still happy and oblivious and believed that Steve was good and sweet and  _ his. _

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why--you were--” he shakes his head, and his ears are buzzing. “You were supposed to be  _ different,”  _ he blurts out. Because he was. He was supposed to be special, supposed to be  _ different _ from the assholes who’d wanted him for his name or his ass or his money. 

“You  _ aren’t, _ ” Tony bites off. “You’re just like all the other fucking johns who just want to  _ own _ me.”

“I’m not,” Steve says, desperate. 

“Then what the  _ fuck _ was that sketch book?” Tony screams. 

They’re on a busy street, far enough from the gallery that they don’t have an audience, but there’s snow drifting down and it’s caught in his eyelashes, he’s shivering and Steve is still staring at him, big and beautiful and eyes wet with emotion. 

“It was the Maria Stark Gala,” Steve says, sharply. “You were wearing a skirt and this--it was a gauze thing, all flowing and soft and you were  _ laughing. _ You were with Pepper and I couldn’t fucking look away. Tasha told me later, that you were an escort, but I saw you, baby, and you were the prettiest thing I’d seen in so long I forgot what beautiful looked like. And then you were there in your fucking skirt and your shirt that looked like a cloud and I couldn’t  _ breathe.  _ I drew you a dozen times in the next week, because I couldn’t get you outta my head. You were--Christ, you still are, baby, you’re gorgeous. You’re everything I want to draw.” 

Tony stares at him and Steve tucks his hands in his pockets. “I saw you again. I didn’t--I didn’t seek you out, Tony. But the socialite scene isn’t that big in New York. And you were always there, on someone’s arm and sometimes with Rhodey, and I liked it, when you were with him, cause you seemed happy those nights, but I just--anytime you were there, it’s like the rest of the room disappeared. When you’re in the room, sweetheart--the whole fucking world disappears.” 

Tony trembles. He knows what that feels like, because he’s felt it every time Steve watches him. “You--”

“Tony. Sweetheart. It’s not--I know you’re upset. I should have told you. But--”

“Why didn’t you?” he asks, abruptly. “Why did fucking  _ Bucky _ show me that sketchbook?”

Steve looks sick, and slightly ashamed, too, and he shakes his head. “Will you come with me? Will you come home with me and let me explain?” 

Tony stares at him, and Steve waits, hands in his pockets. “I can explain. I owe that to you. I want to, if you’ll let me.” 

“I want you to be  _ different, _ ” Tony says, weakly. “I--Hammer stalked me. There was this client, Vanko? Big Russian fucker. He stalked me. There was this creepy board in his house with all these articles and--”

“I promise this isn’t like that, sweetheart,” Steve says. “It’s just--me. Being a fucking coward.” 

He extends a hand, and there’s something hesitant and hopeful in his gaze, that Tony knows he can refuse. 

He doesn’t though. He nods and says. “I want you to explain.” 

Some of the tension eases from Steve’s shoulders and he nods. Steps close enough to steer Tony toward the curb, but he doesn’t quite touch him, a careful line of distance that Tony loves and hates. 

He doesn’t do anything to close that gap though, not while they wait for a cab, and not when they’re sitting, close enough to touch, in the backseat, headed toward Brooklyn. 

Steve’s quiet next to him while they drive, watching the city slide by. His hand is tightly clenched, and it’s the only indication Tony has, that he’s upset at all. It’s enough. 

There’s a part of him that is still angry, still shocked and furious and desperate for answers. 

And there is a part of him that knows Steve has been good to him, calls him  _ good _ and  _ sweetheart _ and  _ mine. _

The man who has been so gentle and  _ good _ to him--he wouldn’t hurt Tony. 

He has had every chance, and he has never hurt Tony. 

“You left your show,” Tony says, and Steve jerks twisting to look at him, his eyes wide and startled. “You--that was your big opening.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Steve says, dismissive. 

“It doesn’t  _ matter? _ ” Tony echoes, disbelieving. 

Steve shrugs, light, and flashes a smile. “I’ve already answered all the questions the reporters are gonna ask, and Natasha will handle the critics. It’s--none of the pieces are for sale. It’s just an exhibit.” 

“Why do it, then?” Tony asks, curious despite himself and Steve smiles, small and secretive. 

“We’re almost home,” he says, instead of answering. 

~*~ 

Steve follows Tony into the townhouse, and drops the keys onto the counter with a loud clatter. “Do you want to change?” he asks and Tony kicks out of his heeled boots. 

“I want an explanation,” Tony says, too tired to be angry. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to be angry here, not where he’s been so happy. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I wanted--I’ve wanted to to tell you everything for so long now--but it always felt like the wrong time. We were happy and I didn’t want--” Steve shrugs and shakes his head. “I didn’t want that to end.” 

“What  _ was _ it.” 

“When I first got out--I was miserable. I dated a couple people--but I wawa alone, really. Bucky and Tasha were happy, Peggy had met Angi--and I was alone. I didn’t know what I was doing. Tasha kept trying to get me to do some art, but I had the company--and then one night, I was at a charity party with Tasha and I heard someone bitching on the phone about a really bastard of a father. About being at this party when all he wanted was to go get a cheeseburger and build something in his workshop and it made me realize--I was miserable because I was doing this shit I didn’t like.” 

Tony stares at him and Steve smiles, small and shy. He’s never looked small. “I went home and started that first painting--the one of Tasha--that night.” 

“And then you found me, didn’t you,” Tony asks, quiet. 

“No,” Steve says, shaking his head. “What you said--that stuck with me. But I didn’t see you for a few years. That night with Pepper. And you were utterly captivating. But it took a while, before I realized that the voice that reminded me to do what I love and the prettiest escort in Manhattan were the same person.” 

Tony blinks at him and Steve shrugged. “You--you brought me back to life, sweetheart. Even before you became my favorite thing to draw--you gave me back what I loved. Then you were so fucking beautiful and you were always so miserable with your clients and I never wanted--I didn’t want you to be miserable with me.”

“So you just--what--drew me and pined from a distance?” Tony asks, sharp with disbelief and Steve  _ blushes. _ “Holy shit, you  _ did.  _ What were you going to do if you didn’t have this exhibit--”

He cuts himself off and stares at Steve, who scratches at his beard and admits, “Uh. Bucky might have set this up. And the first date. Because he was tired of my pining,” Steve admits. “He’s been trying to get me to talk to you for over a year.” 

Tony blinks. If he has to  _ thank _ Bucky Barnes he might actually throw up. 

Still. He has to ask--”Why didn’t you?” 

Steve shrugs and looks away. “Because you were perfect. And I didn’t want to ever make you miserable, the way your clients do. I didn’t want--you’re perfect, sweetheart, and brilliant, and I’m just an old busted up soldier. What the hell could I offer you?” 

It’s such an unexpected statement that Tony doesn’t react, not at first. Not for a long moment, before he laughs, and steps into Steve’s space. 

Because maybe this is what they both need. 

Maybe--maybe both of them have been circling around what they both want for far too long. 

He steps into Steve’s space, shoves lightly at his shoulders and Steve gives way, collapses into the couch and watches with cautious curious eyes. 

Tony slips into his lap, straddling him, sinks his fingers in the long silver hair until deep dark blue stares up at him, patient and hungry. 

He wants this. 

He wants  _ Steve.  _

Tony kisses him, and Steve’s hands flex on his hips, holding him, even as he remains pliant and still under Tony’s own hands. He moans a little, when Tony licks into his mouth, when Tony nips at his lower lip and then licks over the sting. He groans and bucks up, rutting against him, when Tony sucks on his tongue, and Tony smirks into the kiss, fingers digging into his hair. 

They’ve done this before. 

And he knows, he  _ knows _ that Steve has a plan, for when they fuck, if they ever fuck. 

But it’s been years and it’s been months and he’s  _ done.  _

“Steve,” Tony murmurs and Steve hums, soft, against Tony’s throat, where he’s worrying a bruise. “Honey, want you to fuck me.”

Steve groans, and Tony smiles and drags his head back. Silver and blue and beautiful peers up. 

“Will you fuck me, honey?” Tony coaxes, sugar sweet and rolling his hips. 

Steve shivers a little and nods, a dazed kind of gleam in his eyes, and Tony wonders if this is what he looks like, when Steve is tying him down and wringing pleasure from his body. 

He hopes so. He hopes that he could look half this lovely for Steve. 

It’s tricky to work Steve’s pants down without relinquishing his spot on his lap, and impossible to do for himself, in the tight fit that Karen poured him into, and Steve makes a bereft noise. “Shh, honey,” Tony soothes. “Just a second.” 

He strips quick and graceless, and Steve seems to get with the program when Tony snaps his fingers halfway through stripping off his shirt, shimmying his pants down and it’s not enough, really, they’re still half dressed, they’re  _ rushing _ , but--

He drops back into Steve’s lap. “Hold onto me, ok, honey? Don’t let me fall.”

“Never,” Steve murmurs, fervent, hands gentle and solid on his hips, and his breath catches, a little, when Tony reaches back and fingers himself. 

He moves quick and economical, not quite rushing, but there’s no show to be put on right now, not when Steve is watching him so hungry and dazed and wanting. 

“You ready, honey?” he asks, too soon, and Steve makes a noise, wordless and punched out, and Tony smiles. 

It’s too much. 

Sliding down, taking Steve into him--he’s too big and hot, filling him up, his hands clenching and unclenching on Tony’s hips. Steve’s gasping, these breathless noises, punched out and wounded and Tony wants to lick them from his mouth, wants to bite at his lip and claw at his skin, but it’s  _ too much _ . 

He sobs, riding him, and Steve’s hands tighten. “So gorgeous, baby,” he breathes. 

“Please,” Tony sobs, and Steve’s hands tighten, just a little, before he’s moving Tony, pulling him down on his cock, fucking up into him and maybe it’s the angle, the way he shoves Tony onto his cock but he’s suddenly slamming into his prostate, and Tony  _ screams.  _

Steve groans and his rhythm stutters a little, his arms going impossibly tight as he hammers into Tony, clutching him close and breathing indecipherable words into Tony’s hair. 

He comes like that, Steve thick and hard in him, cock trapped between their bellies, arms tight and comforting around him, and Steve curses, fucks him harder until he’s limp and hanging in his gasp, and whimpering from the overstimulation. Tony leans up, kisses him, a sloppy press of teeth and lips and breathes, “Come, Daddy. Come in me.” 

“Baby,” Steve breathes, and shudders, coming almost silently. His eyes go wide and almost sightless, unfocused in a way Tony’s never seen, sparkling sky bright and silver hanging waves. He’s so beautiful, so breathtakingly raw in that moment that Tony hates them, all the ones who came before him, for seeing Steve like this. 

He wants to keep him. 

He wants to  _ stay.  _

It takes a long moment, before Steve’s breathing settles, and Tony is quiet, patient, perched messy and open and tender in his lap, until Steve makes a noise, startled and bereft and says, “Lemme take care of you.” 

He always has. It’s one of the things Tony loves most about him, the way that Steve always,  _ always  _ takes care of him. 

He nods and Steve smiles, dazzling bright and shifts him up, carrying him to the bathroom. He puts Tony on the counter and starts the bath, and Tony watches him. 

“Those bracelets,” he says, and Steve looks at him. “Those really got under your skin, huh?” 

Steve shrugs and he looks bashful, even standing naked and post-coital. “I wanted to see you wearing them, and nothing else,” he admits and Tony smirks. 

“I think,” he says, slowly, “I’m going to keep you, Daddy.” 

Steve smiles, blinding bright and beautiful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's a wrap!!! Thanks so much for reading, and hopefully you'll come back for Steve's story--cuz yeah, this is a series now. OOps?


End file.
